The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

“So fur good; an’ now for tother proposal I hev to make. I don’t acknowledge yur right to this clarin’. I’ve made it; an’ call it my own, as a sovereign citizen of these United States; an’ I don’t care a cuss for pre-emption right, since I don’t believe in any man’s right to move me off o’ the groun’ I’ve clared. But I ain’t so durned pertickler ’bout this hyur bit. Another ’ll answer my bizness equally as well – maybe better – an’ ef ye’ll pay me for my improvements, ye can take both clarin’ an’ cabin, an’ hev no more muss about it. Them’s my proposals.”

“How much do you expect for these improvements? At what sum do you value them?”

I trembled as I awaited the answer. My poor purse felt light as it lay against my bosom – far lighter than the heart within: though that had been heavier but an hour before. I knew that the sack contained less than two hundred dollars, in notes of the Planters’ Bank; and I feared that such a sum would never satisfy the expectations of the squatter.

“Wal, stranger,” replied he, after a pause, “thur worth a good wheen o’ dollars; but I shan’t valley ’em myself. I’ll leave that part o’ the bizness to a third individooal – my friend as stands thur; an’ who’s a just man, an’s been some’at o’ a lawyer too. He’ll say what’s fair atween us. Won’t ye, Josh?”

I thought this rather a familiar style of address, on the part of the squatter, towards his clerical and saint-like friend; but I refrained from showing my astonishment.

“Oh, yes,” replied the other, “I’ll value the property with pleasure – that is, if the gentleman desires me to do so.”

“How much do you think it worth?” I inquired with nervous anxiety. “Well, I should say that, for the improvements Mr Holt has made, a hundred dollars would be a fair compensation.”

“A hundred dollars?”

“Yes – in cash, of course, I mean.”

“Will you be satisfied with that sum?” said I, turning to Holt for the answer.

“Parfitly satisfied – so long’s it’s in cash.”

“I agree to give it then.”

“All right, strenger! a bargain’s a bargain. You kin shell out the dollars; and I’ll gie ye pursession afore this gentleman – who’ll witness it in writin’, ef you like.”

“I want no writing. I can trust to your word.”

It was no flattery: I felt at the moment that the squatter – rudely as he had acted – was still possessed of an honourable principle; and I knew that, under the circumstances, his word would not only be as good as his bond, but better! I made no hesitation, therefore; but, counting out the money, placed it upon the stump – alongside that curious document, impaled there by the blade of the squatter’s knife.

“When ’ud ye like to take pursession?” asked the outgoing tenant.

“At your convenience,” I replied, wishing to behave as courteously as possible.

“It won’t take me long to move. My furniter ain’t very cumbersome; an’ I kud let ye in to-morrow, ef ’t wan’t that I hev some unexpected bizness with my friend hyur. Say day arter the morrow? Ef ye’ll kum then, ye’ll find me ready to deliver up. Will that answer for ye?”

“Admirably!” was my reply.

“All right, then! I’d ask ye in, but thur’s nothin’ to gie you – ’ceptin’ that piece o’ deer-meat, an’ it’s raw. Besides, strenger, I’ve some partickler bizness jest now, that I’m ’bleeged to see to.”

“Oh, never mind! I shall not need any refreshment till I reach Swampville.”

“Wal, then, I’ll bid you good-mornin’ at the same time wishin’ you luck o’ your bargin.”

“Thanks – good morning!”

I leaped into the saddle, and turned my horse’s head towards the entrance of the enclosure. I should have given him the touch to go forward with more reluctance, had I not perceived the fair Lilian gliding out of the cabin, and proceeding in the same direction! Two or, three of the bars had been replaced by the clerical visitor; and she had gone, apparently, to remove them. Was it simple courtesy, or a pretence to speak with me? My heart heaved with a tumultuous joy, as I fancied that the latter might be her motive. When I reached the entrance, the bars were down; and the young girl stood leaning against one of the uprights – her round white arm embracing the post. Envied piece of timber!

“Promise me, we shall meet again?” said I, bending down, and speaking in a half-whisper.

She looked back towards the cabin with a timid glance. We were not observed. The two men had gone into the horse-shed. In her fingers, I noticed the flower of a bignonia. She had taken it from among the golden tresses of her hair. Her cheek rivalled the crimson of its corolla, as she flung the blossom upon the saddle-bow.

“Promise me!” I repeated in a more earnest tone.

“Yes – yes!” she replied in a soft low voice, that resembled the whisper of an angel; and then, hearing noises from the house, she passed hurriedly away. “Yes – yes – !” cried the mimic thrush, as I rode on through the tall tulip-trees. “Yes – yes!” repeated a thousand rival songsters; or were the sounds I heard but the echoes of her voice, still pealing through the glad chambers of my heart?

Chapter Twenty Eight

An Errand of Love

This second purchase and payment rendered necessary a communication with my Nashville friend. Fortunately, Swampville had a mail; and, to avail myself of it, I rode direct for the settlement. On my return, I found the river-town, figuratively speaking, on fire. Short as bad been the period of my absence, it had been marked by an incident of no ordinary character. That morning’s mail had conveyed to the settlement the intelligence of a rare and interesting event – the discovery of the gold placers of California. I had heard rumours of this before – only half believed, and not yet reaching to Swampville. Returned emigrants from California were now reported, as having arrived in Saint Louis and other frontier towns – bringing with them, not only the full account of the gold discovery, but its confirmation, in the shape of large “chunks” of gold-bearing quartz, and bags of the yellow dust itself. The marvellous tale was no longer questioned, or doubted. The mail had brought newspapers from New Orleans and Saint Louis, giving detailed accounts of the digging of Sutter’s mill-race by the disbanded soldiers of the “Mormon Battalion;” of the crevasse caused by the water, which had laid open the wonderful auriferous deposits; and describing also the half frantic excitement which the news had produced these populous cities.

In this, Swampville had not been slow to imitate them. I found the little village on the qui vive: not only the idlers showing an interest in the extraordinary intelligence; but the business men of the place being equally startled out of their sobriety. A “company” was already projected, in which many well-to-do men had registered their names; and even Colonel Kipp talked of transporting his penates across the great plains, and swinging the Jackson sign upon the shores of the Pacific. Swampville was smitten with a golden mania, that seemed to promise its speedy depopulation.

Though many of my old camarados of the Mexican campaign found fresh vent for their energies in this new field of enterprise, for me it had no attractions whatever. I therefore resisted the solicitations of the Swampvillians to “jine thar company” – in which I was offered the compliment of a command. On that day, and at that hour, not for all the gold in California would I have forsaken my new home in the forest – under whose “boundless contiguity of shade” sparkled, in my eyes, “a metal more attractive.” Instead of longing for the far shores of the Pacific, I longed only to return to the banks of Mud Creek; and chafed at the necessary delay that hindered me from gratifying my wish. Even the generous hospitality of Colonel Kipp – amiable under the influence of golden dreams – even the smiles of the simpering Alvina, and the more brave coquetry of Car’line – now become a decided admirer of my yellow buttons – were not sufficient to preserve my spirits from ennui. Only at meals did I make my appearance at the hotel – at all other times, seeking to soothe the impassioned pulsations of my heart in the dark depths of the forest. There I would wander for hours, not listing where I went; but ever finding myself, as if by some instinct, upon the path that conducted in the direction of the creek! It was some solace to listen to the notes of the wild-woods – the songs of birds and bee – for these had become associated in my mind with the melodious tones of Lilian’s voice – to look upon the forest flowers; more especially upon the encarmined blossom of the bignonia – now to me a symbol of the sweetest sentiment. The one most prized of all, I had carefully preserved. In a glass I had placed it, on the dressing-table of my chamber, with its peduncle immersed in water.

My zealous care only procured me a chagrin. On returning from one of my rambles, I found the flower upon the floor, crushed by some spiteful heel? Was it thy heel, Caroline Kipp? In its place was a bunch of hideous gilly-flowers and yellow daffodils, of the dimensions of a drum-head cabbage – placed there either to mock my regard, or elicit my admiration! In either case, I resolved upon a revanche. By its wound, the bignonia smelt sweeter than ever; and though I could not restore the pretty blossom to its graceful campanulate shape, from that time forward it appeared in my buttonhole – to the slight torture, I fancied, of the backwoods coquette.

In the two days during which I was denied sight of her my love for Lilian Holt was fast ripening into a passion – which absence only seemed to amplify. No doubt the contrast of common faces – such as those I observed in Swampville – did something towards heightening my admiration. There was another contrast that had at this time an influence on my heart’s inclinings. To an eye, fatigued with dwelling long and continuously on the dark complexions of the south – the olivine hue of Aztec and Iberian skins – there was a relief in the radiance of this carmined blonde, that, apart from her absolute loveliness, was piquant from the novelty and rareness of the characteristic. Additional elements of attraction may have been: the mise en scène that surrounded her; the unexpected discovery of such a precious jewel in so rude a casket; the romantic incident of our first encounter; and the equally peculiar circumstances attending our second and last interview. All these may have combined in weaving around my spirit a spell, that now embraced, and was likely to influence, every act of my future existence. Therefore, on the morning of the third day, as I mounted my horse, and turned his head in the direction of Holt’s clearing, it was not with any design of dispossessing the squatter. Occupied with sweet love-dreams, I had as yet given no thought to the ruder realities of life. I had formed no plan for colonising – neither towards entering upon possession, nor extending the “improvement” I had twice purchased.

Notwithstanding both purchase and payment, the squatter might still continue to hold his cabin and clearing – and share with me the disputed land. Welcome should I make him, on one condition – the condition of becoming his guest – constant or occasional – in either way, so long as I might have the opportunity of enjoying the presence of his fair daughter, and to her demonstrating my heart’s devotion. Some such idea, vaguely conceived, flitted across my mind, as I entered upon my second journey to Mud Creek. My ostensible object was to take formal possession of an estate, and turn out its original owner. But my heart was in no unison with such an end. It recoiled from, or rather had it forgotten, its purpose. Its throbbings were directed to a different object: guiding me on a more joyful and auspicious errand —the errand of love.

Chapter Twenty Nine

A red-skinned Sibyl

Not a sound came from the forest to disturb my sweet musings. Silent was the sky of the Indian summer – soft and balm-laden its breeze. The trees stirred not; the branches seemed extended in the stillness of repose; even the leaves of the tremuloides, hanging on their compressed petioles, were scarcely seen to quiver. The rustling heard at intervals, was but the fluttering of bright wings amid the foliage; or the rushing of some mountebank squirrel in reckless evolution among the branches – sounds harmonising with the scene. Not till I had entered the glade was I aroused from my reverie – at first gently, by the sudden emergence from shade into light; but afterwards in a more sensible manner on sight of a human form – at a glance recognised as that of the Indian maiden. She was seated, or rather reclining, against the blanched log; her brown arm embracing an outstretched limb; half supported on one leg – the other crossed carelessly over it in an attitude of repose. Beside her on the log lay a wicker pannier, filled with odds and ends of Indian manufacture.

Though I had risen close up to the girl, she vouchsafed no acknowledgment of my presence. I observed no motion – not even of the eyes; which, directed downwards, seemed fixed in steadfast gaze upon the ground. Nothing about her appeared to move – save the coruscation of metallic ornaments that glittered in the sun, as though her body were enveloped in scale-armour. Otherwise, she might have been mistaken for a statue in bronze. And one, too, of noble proportions. The attitude was in every way graceful; and displayed to perfection the full bold contour of the maiden’s form. Her well-rounded arm entwining the branch, with her large body and limbs outlined in alto-relievo against the entablature of the white trunk, presented a picture that a sculptor would have loved to copy; and that even the inartistic eye could not look upon without admiration.

Instinctively I checked my horse, and halted in front of this singular apparition. I can scarcely tell why I did so; since neither by look nor gesture was I invited to take such a liberty. On the contrary, I could perceive that my movement was regarded with displeasure. There was no change in the statuesque attitude: even the eyes were not raised from the earth; but a frown was distinctly traceable on the features of the girl. Thus repulsed, I should have ridden on; and would have done so, but for that sense of awkwardness, which one feels in similar situations. By pausing in the marked manner I had done, and gazing so pointedly at the girl, I had committed an act of ill-breeding – of which I now felt sensible. Indian though she was, she was evidently no common squaw; but gifted with certain noble traits, of which many a maiden with white skin might have envied her the possession. Beyond that, I knew she was the victim of a passion – all-absorbing as it was hopeless – and this in my eyes, ennobled and sanctified her.

Just then, I had myself no cause to fear an unrequited love – no need to be ungenerous or selfish – and could, therefore, afford to extend my sympathy to the sufferings of another. It was some vague prompting of this kind, that had caused me to draw up – some idea of offering consolation. The repelling reception was altogether unexpected, and placed me in a predicament. How was I to escape from it? By holding my tongue, and riding on? No; this would be an acknowledgment of having committed an act of gaucherie– to which man’s vanity rarely accedes, or only with extreme reluctance. I had rushed inconsiderately into the mire, and must plunge deeper to get through. “We must become worse to make our title good.”

So reflecting, or rather without reflecting at all, I resolved to “become worse” – with the risk of making a worse of it. “Perhaps,” thought I, “she does not recognise me?” She had not looked at me as yet. “If she would only raise her eyes, she would remember me as the friend of the White Eagle. That might initiate a conversation; and cause her to interpret more kindly my apparent rudeness. I shall speak to her at all hazards. Su-wa-nee!” The dark Indian eye was raised upon me with an angry flash; but no other reply was vouchsafed. “Su-wa-nee!” I repeated in the most conciliatory tone. “Do you not remember me? I am the friend of the White Eagle.”

“And what is that to Su-wa-nee? She has no words for you – you may go on!”

This decided repulse, instead of bettering my position, rendered it still more complicated. Somewhat confusedly, I rejoined: “I am on the way to visit the White Eagle. I thought – perhaps – you might – that possibly you might have some message for him.”

“Su-wa-nee has no message for the White Eagle!” replied she, interrupting me, in the indignant tone, and with a contemptuous toss of her head. “If she had, she would not choose a false pale-face, like himself, to be its bearer. You fancy, white man, you can insult the Indian maiden at your pleasure? You dare not take such liberty with one of your own colour?”

“I assure you I had no such intention: my object was very different. I was prompted to speak to you, knowing something of your affair of the other night with my friend Wingrove – which you remember I was witness of. I could not help overhearing – ”

I was interrupted by another quick contemptuous exclamation, that accompanied a glance of mingled vexation and scorn: – “You may know too much, and too little, my brave slayer of red panthers! Su-wa-nee does not thank you for interfering in her affairs. She can promise you sufficient occupation with your own. Go! See to them!”

“How? What mean you?” I hurriedly asked, perceiving a certain significance in her looks, as well as words, that produced within me a sudden feeling of inquietude. “What mean you?” I repeated, too anxious to wait her reply; “has anything happened?”

“Go, see yourself! You lose time in talking to a squaw, as you call us. Haste! or your bell-flower will be plucked and crushed, like that which you wear so proudly upon your breast. The wolf has slept in the lair of the forest deer: the yellow fawn will be his victim! Su-wa-nee joys at it: ha, ha, ha! Hers will not be the only heart wrung by the villainy of the false pale-face. Ha, ha, ha! Go, brave slayer of red panthers! Ah! you may go, but only to grieve: you will be too late – too late – too late!”