The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

A considerable time passed, and still the squatter vouchsafed no answer. He was evidently wavering, as to the nature of the response he should make.

Twice or thrice he raised his head, stealthily directing his glance to the countenance of his visitor; but only to read, in the looks of the latter, a fixed and implacable purpose. There was no mercy there.

All at once, a change came over the colossus. A resolution of resistance had arisen within him – as was evinced by his altered attitude and the darkening shadow upon his countenance. The triumphant glances of the pseudo-saint appeared to have provoked him, more than the matter in dispute. Like the buffalo of the plains stung with Indian arrows, or the great mysticetus of the deep goaded by the harpoon of the whaler, all the angry energies of his nature appeared suddenly aroused from their lethargy; and he sprang to his feet, towering erect in the presence of his tormentor. “Damnation!” cried he, striking the floor with his heavy heel, “she won’t do it – she won’t, and she shan’t!”

“Keep cool, Hickman Holt!” rejoined the Mormon, without moving from his seat – “keep cool! I expected this; but it’s all bluster. I tell you she will, and she shall!”

“Hev a care, Josh Stebbins! Hev a care what yur about! Ye don’t know what you may drive me to – ”

“But I know what I may lead you to,” interrupted the other with a sneering smile.

“What?” involuntarily inquired Holt.

“The gallows,” laconically answered Stebbins.

“Devils an’ damnation!” This emphatic rejoinder was accompanied with a furious grinding of teeth, but with a certain recoiling – as if the angry spirit of the giant could still be stayed by such a menace.

“It’s no use swearing about it, Holt,” continued the Mormon, after a certain time had passed in silence. “My mind’s made up – the girl must go with me. Say yes or no. If yes, then all’s well – well for your daughter, and well for you too. I shall be out of your way – Salt Lake’s a long distance off – and it’s not likely you’ll ever set eyes on me again. You understand me?”

The saint pronounced these last words with a significant emphasis; and then paused, as if to let them have their full weight. They appeared to produce an effect. On hearing them, a gleam, like a sudden flash of sunlight, passed over the countenance of the squatter. It appeared the outward index of some consolatory thought freshly conceived; and its continuance proved that it was influencing him to take a different view of the Mormon’s proposal. He spoke at length; but no longer in the tone of rage – for his passion seemed to have subsided, as speedily as it had sprung up.

“An’ s’pose I say no?”

“Why, in that case, I shall not start so soon as I had intended. I shall stay in the settlements till I have performed a duty that, for a long time, I have left undone.”

“What duty is’t you mean?”

“One I owe to society; and which I have perhaps sinfully neglected —bring a murderer to justice!”

“Hush! Josh Stebbins – for Heaven’s sake, speak low! You know it isn’t true– but, hush! the gurls are ’thout. Don’t let them hear sech talk!”

“Perhaps,” continued Stebbins, without heeding the interruption, “perhaps that murderer fancies he might escape. He is mistaken if he do. One word from me in Swampville, and the hounds of the law would be upon him; ay, and if he could even get clear of them, he could not escape out of my power. I have told you I am an Apostle of the great Mormon Church; and that man would be cunning indeed who could shun the vengeance of our Destroying Angels. Now, Hickman Holt, which is it to be? yes or no?” The pause was ominous for poor Marian.

The answer decided her doom. It was delivered in a hoarse husky voice: “Yes – yes – she may go!”

Chapter Eight

A splendid Pension

The treaty of Guadalupe Hidalogo was followed by an extensive débandement, which sent many thousands of sabres ringing back into their scabbards – some of them soon after to spring forth in the cause of freedom, calumniously called “filibustering;” others perhaps destined never to be drawn again. Using a figurative expression, not a few were converted into spades; and in this pacific fashion, carried to the far shores of the Pacific Ocean – there to delve for Californian gold – while still others were suspended in the counting-house or the studio, to rust in inglorious idleness. A three years’ campaign under the sultry skies of Mexico – drawing out the war-fever that had long burned in the bosoms of the American youth – had satisfied the ambition of most. It was only those who arrived late upon the field – too late to pluck a laurel – who would have prolonged the strife.

The narrator of this tale, Edward Warfield —ci-devant captain of a corps of “rangers” – was not one of the last mentioned. With myself, as with many others, the great Mexican campaign was but the continuation of the little war —la petite guerre– that had long held an intermittent existence upon the borders of Texas, and in which we had borne part; and the provincial laurels there reaped, when interwoven with the fresher and greener bays gathered upon the battle-fields of Anahuac, constituted a wreath exuberant enough to content us for the time. For my part, notwithstanding the portentous sound of my ancestral patronymic, I was tired of the toils of war, and really desired a “spell” of peace: during which I might indulge in the dolce far niente, and obtain for my wearied spirit a respite of repose. My wishes were in similitude with those of the poet, who longed for “a lodge in some vast wilderness – some boundless contiguity of shade;” or perhaps, more akin to those of that other poet of less solitary inclinings, who only desired the “desert as a dwelling-place, with one fair spirit for his minister!” In truth, I felt a strong inclination for the latter description of life; and, in all likelihood, would have made a trial of it, but for the interference of one of those ill-starred contingencies that often embarrass the best intentions. A phrase of common occurrence will explain the circumstance that offered opposition to my will: “want of the wherewith to support a wife.”

I had been long enough in the wilderness, to know that even a “dwelling in the desert” cannot be maintained without expense; and that however pure the desert air, the fairest “spirit” would require something more substantial to live upon. Under this prudential view of the case, marriage was altogether out of the question. We, the débandes, were dismissed without pension: the only reward for our warlike achievements being a piece of “land scrip,” good for the number of acres upon the face of it – to be selected from “government land,” wherever the holder might choose to “locate.” The scrip was for greater or less amount, according to the term of the receiver’s service. Mine represented a “section” of six hundred and forty acres – worth in ordinary times, a dollar and quarter per acre; but just then – on account of the market being flooded by similar paper – reduced to less than half its value. With this magnificent “bounty” was I rewarded for services, that perhaps – some day – might be – never mind! – thank heaven for blessing me with the comforting virtues of humility and contentment! This bit of scrip then – a tried steed that had carried me many a long mile, and through the smoke of more than one red fray – a true rifle, that I had myself carried equally as far – a pair of Colt’s pistols – and a steel “Toledo,” taken at the storming of Chapultepec – constituted the bulk of my available property. Add to this, a remnant of my last month’s pay – in truth, not enough to provide me with that much coveted article, a civilian’s suit: in proof of which, my old undress-frock, with its yellow spread-eagle buttons, clung to my shoulders like a second shirt of Nessus. The vanity of wearing a uniform, that may have once been felt, was long ago threadbare as the coat itself; and yet I was not wanting in friends, who fancied that it might still exist! How little understood they the real state of the case, and how much did they misconstrue my involuntary motives!

It was just to escape from such unpleasant associations, that I held on to my “scrip.” Most of my brother-officers had sold theirs for a “song,” and spent the proceeds upon a “supper.” In relation to mine, I had other views than parting with it to the greedy speculators. It promised me that very wilderness-home I was in search of; and, having no prospect of procuring a fair spirit for my “minister,” I determined to “locate” without one.

I was at the time staying in Tennessee – the guest of a campaigning comrade and still older friend. He was grandson of that gallant leader, who, with a small band of only forty families, ventured three hundred miles through the heart of the “bloody ground” and founded Nashville upon the bold bluffs of an almost unknown river! From the lips of their descendants I had heard so many thrilling tales of adventures, experienced by this pioneer band, that Tennessee had become, in my fancy a region of romance. Other associations had led me to love this hospitable and chivalric state; and I resolved, that, within its boundaries, I should make my home. A visit to the Land-office of Nashville ended in my selection of Section Number 9, Township – , as my future plantation. It was represented to me as a fertile spot – situated in the “Western Reserve” – near the banks of the beautiful Obion, and not far above the confluence of this river with the Mississippi. The official believed there had been some “improvement” made upon the land by a squatter; but whether the squatter still lived upon it, he could not tell. “At all events, the fellow will be too poor to exercise the pre-emption right, and of course must move off.” So spoke the land agent. This would answer admirably. Although my Texan experience had constituted me a tolerable woodsman, it had not made me a woodcutter; and the clearing of the squatter, however small it might be, would serve as a beginning. I congratulated myself on my good luck; and, without further parley, parted with my scrip – receiving in return the necessary documents, that constituted me the legal owner and lord of the soil of Section 9. The only additional information the agent could afford me was: that my new purchase was all “heavily timbered,” with the exception before referred to; that the township in which it was situated was called Swampville; and that the section itself was known as “Holt’s Clearing” – from the name, it was supposed, of the squatter who had made the “improvement.”

With this intelligence in my head, and the title-deeds in my pocket, I took leave of the friendly official; who, at parting, politely wished me “a pleasant time of it on my new plantation!”

Chapter Nine

Friendly Advice

On returning to the house of my friend, I informed him of my purchase; and was pleased to find that he approved of it. “You can’t be taken in,” said he, “by land upon the Obion. From what I have heard of it, it is one of the most fertile spots in Tennessee. Moreover, as you are fond of hunting, you’ll find game in abundance. The black bear, and even the panther – or ‘painter,’ as our backwoodsmen have it – are still common in the Obion bottom; and indeed, all throughout the forests of the Reserve.”

“I’m rejoiced to hear it.”

“No doubt,” continued my friend, with a smile, “you may shoot deer from your own door; or trap wolves and wild-cats at the entrance to your hen-roost.”

“Good!”

“O yes – though I can’t promise that you will see anything of Venus in the woods, you may enjoy to your heart’s content the noble art of venerie. The Obion bottom is a very paradise for hunters. It was it that gave birth to the celebrated Crockett.”

“On that account it will be all the more interesting to me; and, from what you say, it is just the sort of place I should have chosen to squat upon.”

“By the by,” interrupted my friend, looking a little grave as he spoke, “your making use of that familiar phrase, recalls the circumstance you mentioned just now. Did I understand you to say, there was a squatter on the land?”

“There was one – so the agent has told me; but whether he be still squatted there, the official could not say.”

“Rather awkward, if he be,” rejoined my friend, in a sort of musing soliloquy; while, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, he kept pulling his “goatee” to its full length.

“In what way awkward?” I asked in some surprise. “How can that signify?”

“A great deal. These squatters are queer fellows —ugly customers to deal with – especially when you come to turn them out of their house and home, as they consider it. It is true, they have the pre-emption right– that is, they may purchase, if they please, and send you to seek a location elsewhere; but this is a privilege those gentry rarely please to indulge in – being universally too poor to purchase.”

“What then?”

“Their motto is, for ‘him to keep who can.’ The old adage, ‘possession being nine points of the law,’ is, in the squatter’s code, no dead-letter, I can assure you.”

“Do you mean, that the fellow might refuse to turn out?”

“It depends a good deal on what sort of a fellow he is. They are not all alike. If he should chance to be one of the obstinate and pugnacious kind, you are likely enough to have trouble with him.”

“But surely the law – ”

“Will aid you in ousting him – that’s what you were going to say?”

“I should expect so – in Tennessee, at all events.”

“And you would be disappointed. In almost any other part of the state, you might rely upon legal assistance; but, I fear, that about Swampville you will find society not very different from that you have encountered on the borders of Texas; and you know how little help the law could afford you there, in the enforcement of such a claim?”

“Then I must take the law into my own hands,” rejoined I, falling into very old-fashioned phraseology – for I was beginning to feel indignant at the very idea of this prospective difficulty. “No, Warfield,” replied my sober friend, “do not take that course; I know you are not the man to be scared out of your rights; but, in the present case, prudence is the proper course to follow. – Your squatter, if there be one – it is to be hoped that, like many of our grand cities, he has only an existence on the map – but if there should be a real live animal of this description on the ground, he will be almost certain to have neighbours – some half-dozen of his own kidney – living at greater or less distances around him. They are not usually of a clannish disposition; but, in a matter of this kind, they will be as unanimous in their sympathies, and antipathies too, as they would about the butchering of a bear. Turn one of them out by force – either legal or otherwise – and it would be like bringing a hornets’ nest about your ears. Even were you to succeed in so clearing your land, you would find ever afterwards a set of very unpleasant neighbours to live among. I know some cases in point, that occurred nearer home here. In fact, on some wild lands of my own I had an instance of the kind.”

“What, then, am I to do? Can you advise me?”

“Do as others have often done before you; and who have actually been forced to the course of action I shall advise. Should there be a squatter, and one likely to prove obstinate, approach him as gently as you can, and state your case frankly. You will find this the best mode of treating with these fellows – many of whom have a dash of honour, as well as honesty in their composition. Speak of the improvements he has made, and offer him a recompense.”