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The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

Chapter Twenty Two
A Rough Reception

For fashion’s sake, I was about to utter the usual formula, “Mr Holt, I presume?” but the opportunity was not allowed me. No sooner had the squatter appeared in his doorway, than he followed up his blasphemous interrogatory with a series of others, couched in language equally rude.

“What’s all this muss about? Durn yur stinkin’ imperence, who air ye? an’ what air ye arter?”

“I wish to see Mr Holt,” I replied, struggling hard to keep my temper.

“Ye wish to see Mister Holt? Thur’s no Mister Holt ’bout hyur.”

“No?”

“No! damnation, no! Didn’t ye hear me!”

“Do I understand you to say, that Hickman Holt does not live here?”

“You understan’ me to say no sich thing. Eft’s Hick Holt ye mean, he diz live hyur.”

“Hick Holt – yes that is the name.”

“Wall what o’t, ef’t is?”

“I wish to see him.”

“Lookee hyur, stranger!” and the words were accompanied by a significant look; “ef yur the shariff, Hick Holt ain’t at home – ye understand me? he ain’t at home.”

The last phrase was rendered more emphatic, by the speaker, as he uttered it, raising the flap of his blanket-coat, and exhibiting a huge bowie-knife stuck through the waistband of his trousers. I understood the hint perfectly.

“I am not the sheriff,” I answered in an assuring tone. I was in hopes of gaining favour by the declaration: for I had already fancied that my bizarre reception might be owing to some error of this kind.

“I am not the sheriff,” I repeated, impressively.

“Yur not the shariff? One o’ his constables, then, I s’pose?”

“Neither one nor other,” I replied, pocketing the affront.

“An’ who air ye, anyhow – wi’ yur dam glitterin’ buttons, an’ yur waist drawd in, like a skewered skunk?”

This was intolerable; but remembering the advice of my Nashville friend – with some additional counsel I had received over-night – I strove hard to keep down my rising choler.

“My name,” said I —

“Durn yur name!” exclaimed the giant, interrupting me; “I don’t care a dog-gone for yur name: tell me yur bizness – that’s what I wanter know.”

“I have already told you my business: I wish to see Mr Holt – Hick Holt, if you like.”

“To see Hick Holt? Wal, ef that’s all yur bizness, you’ve seed him; an’ now ye kin go.”

This was rather a literal interpretation of my demand; but, without permitting myself to be nonplussed by it, or paying any heed to the abrupt words of dismissal, I replied, half interrogatively: “You, then, are he? You are Hick Holt, I suppose?”

“Who said I ain’t – durn your imperence? Now, then, what d’ye want wi’ me?”

The filthy language, the insulting tone in which it was uttered, the bullying manner of the man – evidently relying upon his giant strength, and formidable aspect – were rapidly producing their effect upon me; but in a manner quite contrary to that anticipated by Master Holt. It was no doubt his design to awe me; but he little knew the man he had to deal with. Whether it might be called courage or not, I was just as reckless of life as he. I had exposed my person too often, both in single combat and on the battle-field, to be cowed by a bully – such as I fancied this fellow to be – and the spirit of resistance was fast rising within me. His dictatorial style was unendurable; and discarding all further prudential considerations, I resolved to submit to it no longer. I did not give way to idle recrimination. Perhaps, thought I, a firm tone may suit my purpose better; and, in my reply, I adopted it. Before I could answer his question, however, he had repeated it in a still more peevish and impatient manner – with an additional epithet of insult. “Wal, Mister Jaybird,” said he, “be quick ’bout it! What d’ye want wi’ me?”

“In the first place Mr Hickman Holt, I want civil treatment from you; and secondly – ”

I was not permitted to finish my speech. I was interrupted by an exclamation – a horrid oath – that came fiercely hissing from the lips of the squatter.

“Damnation!” cried he; “you be damned! Civil treetmint i’deed! You’re a putty fellur to talk o’ civil treetmint, arter jumpin’ yur hoss over a man’s fence, an’ ridin’ slap-jam inter his door, ’ithout bein’ asked! Let me tell yer, Mister Gilt Buttons, I don’t ’low any man – white, black, or Injun – to enter my clarin’ ’ithout fust knowin’ his reezun. Ye hear that, d’ye?”

“Your clearing! Are you sure it is yours?”

The squatter turned red upon the instant. Rage may have been the passion that brought the colour to his cheeks; but I could perceive that my words had produced another emotion in his mind, which added to the hideousness of the cast at that moment given to his features.

“Not my clarin’!” he thundered, with the embellishment of another imprecation – “not my clarin’! Shew me the man, who says it’s not! – shew’m to me! By the Almighty Etarnal he won’t say’t twice.”

“Have you purchased it?”

“Neer a mind for that, mister; I’ve made it: that’s my style o’ purchase, an’, by God! it’ll stan’ good, I reck’n. Consarn yur skin! what hev you got to do wi’t anyhow?”

“This,” I replied, still struggling to keep calm, at the same time taking the title-deeds from my saddle-bags – “this only, Mr Holt. That your house stands upon Section Number 9; that I have bought that section from the United States government; and must therefore demand of you, either to use your pre-emption, right, or deliver the land over to me. Here is the government grant – you may examine it, if you feel so inclined.”

An angry oath was the response, or rather a volley of oaths.

“I thort that wur yur bisness,” continued the swearer. “I thort so; but jest this time you’ve kim upon a fool’s errand. Durn the government grant! durn your pre-emption right! an’ durn yur title-papers too! I don’t valley them more’n them thur corn-shucks – I don’t. I’ve got my pre-emption dokyment inside hyur. I’ll jest shew ye that, mister; an’ see how ye’ll like it.”

The speaker turned back into his cabin, and for a moment I lost sight of him.

“Pre-emption document!” he said. Was it possible he had purchased the place, and was gone to fetch his title-deeds?

If so —

My reflection was cut short. In another moment he re-appeared in the doorway; not with any papers in his hand – but, instead, a long rifle, that with its butt resting on the door-stoop, stood almost as high as himself?

“Now, Mister Turn-me-out?” said he, speaking in a satirical triumphant tone, and raising the piece in front of him, “thur’s my title – my pre-emption right’s the right o’ the rifle. It’s clur enuf: ye’ll acknowledge that, won’t ye?”

“No,” I replied in a firm voice.

“Ye won’t? The hell, ye won’t? Look hyur, stranger! I’m in airnest. Look in my eye, an’ see if I ain’t! I gi’ ye warnin’ then, that ef ye’re not out o’ this clarin’ in six jumps o’ a squ’ll, you’ll niver go out o’ it a livin’ man. You see that ere stump? Its shadder’s jest a creepin’ up to the house: the minnit that shadder touches the wall, I’ll shoot you down, as sure’s my name’s Hick Holt. Mind, I’ve gin ye warnin’!”

“And I give you warning, Mr Holt, that I am prepared to defend myself; and if you miss – ”

“Miss!” ejaculated he with a contemptuous toss of the head – “miss, ye fool! thur’s no fear o’ that.”

“If you miss,” continued I, without heeding the interruption, “I shall show you no mercy. If you are going to take the cowardly advantage of having the the first shot, I have my advantage too. In self-defence, I shall be justified in killing you; and if you fire at me, I shall certainly do so. Be warned! I never spare a coward.”

“Coward!” exclaimed the colossus, with an imprecation that was horrible to hear. “An’ how ef I don’t miss?” continued he, apparently calming his rage, and speaking with a significant sneer – intended to awe me, by insinuating the certainty of his aim. “How ef I don’t miss, Mister Popgun?”

“You may, for all that. Don’t be too sure of hitting – I’ve been shot at before now.”

“You’ll niver be shot at arter now, ’ceptin’ ye leave this clarin’. One crack from my gun’ll be enuf for ye, I reck’n.”

“I’ll take my chance. If it should go against me, you won’t gain by it. Remember, my good man, it’s not a duel we’re fighting! You have chosen to attack me; and if I should fall in the affair, I’ve faith enough in the law to believe it will avenge me.”

I fancied that my speech produced some effect upon the fellow; and, seeing that he remained silent, I followed up it by words of similar import: “If it be my fate to fall, I leave behind me friends who will inquire into my death. Trust me, they will do so! If I kill you, it will be but justifiable homicide, and will be so adjudged; while your killing me will be regarded in a different light: it will be pronounced murder!” I gave full emphasis to the last word.

On hearing it my antagonist showed signs of emotion. I fancied I saw him tremble, and turn slightly pale! With an unsteady voice he replied:

“Murder? No, no; I’ve gin ye warnin’ to go. Ye’ve time enuf yet to save yerself. Git out o’ the clarin’, an’ thur’ll be no harm done ye!”

“I shall not go out of the clearing, until you’ve acknowledged my claim.”

“Then you’ll niver go out o’ it alive – I swar by God! niver!”

“You are determined, then, to be my murderer?”

I again pronounced the word in the most emphatic tone. I saw that it affected him in some singular way; whether through a fear of consequences; or that there still lingered in his heart some spark of humanity; or, perhaps – but least possible of all he was beginning to be ashamed of his foul play. By which of of these three motives, or by what other inspired, I could not guess; but he seemed to cower under the imputation.

“Murderer!” echoed he, after a moment of apparent reflection. “No, no; it’s bad enuf to hev the blame o’ that, ’ithout bein’ guilty o’t. I ain’t agwine to murder ye; but I ain’t agwine neyther to let ye go. I mout a did so a minnit agone, but ye’ve lost yur chance. Ye’ve called me a coward; an’ by the Etarnal! no man ’ll say that word o’ Hick Holt, an’ live to boast o’t. No, mister! ye’ve got to die; an’ ye may get yurself ready for’t, ’s soon’s ye like. Coward indeed!”

“I repeat it – your act is cowardly.”

“What act?”

“Your unprovoked attack upon me – especially since it gives you the first shot. What if I were to shoot you down now? With the pistol you see in my holster here, I could send six bullets through your body, before you could bring your rifle to your shoulder. What would you call that? Sheer cowardice, would it not be; and murder too?”

Chapter Twenty Three
A Duel without Seconds

While I was speaking, I saw a change pass over the countenance of my gigantic antagonist – as if some new resolve was forming in his mind, that affected the programme he had already traced out. Was it possible I had touched him on a point of honour? It was this purpose I desired to effect; and, though hopeless it might appear, I continued the only kind of appeal that, with such a spirit, seemed to promise any chance of success.

“You dare not play fair in this game?” I said, banteringly. “You are a coward; and would murder me. You want the first shot: you know you do?”

“It’s a lie!” cried the colossus, raising himself to his full height, and assuming an air of chivalric grandeur I could not have deemed him capable of – “it’s a lie! I don’t wish to murder ye; an’ I don’t want the the first shot neyther.”

“How?”

“I hain’t so little confidence in my shootin’ as to care for you an’ yur jim-crack gun! Nor is Hick Holt in such consate wi’ his life eyther, that he’s afeerd to risk it. Tho’ ye air a stuck-up critter, I won’t gi’ ye the opportunity to ’kuse me o’ foul play. Thur’s grit in ye, I reck’n; and seein’ that’s made me change my mind.”

“What!” I exclaimed, taken by surprise at the speech, and fancying it promised an end to our altercation – “you have changed your mind? you mean to act justly then?”

“I mean, it shall be a fair stan’-up fight atween us.”

“Oh! a duel?”

“Duel, or whatever else ye may call it, mister.”

“I agree to that. But how about seconds?”

“D’ye think two men can’t fight fair ’ithout seconds? Ye see yander stump standin’ nigh the bars?”

“Yes – I see it.”

“Wal, mister, thur you’ll take yur stand – ahine or afront o’ it, whichsomever ye like best. Hyur’s this other un, clost by the crib – thur’ll be my place. Thur’s twenty yurds atween ’em, I reck’n. Is that yur distance?”

“It will do as well as any other,” I replied mechanically – still under the influence of surprise, not unmingled with a sentiment of admiration.

“Dismount, then! Take your pouch an’ flask along wi’ ye – ye see I’ve got myen? One shot at ye’s all I’ll want, I reck’n. But ef thur shed be a miss, look out for quick loadin’! an’ mind, mister! thur’s one o’ us’ll niver leave this clarin’ alive.”

“About the first shot? Who is to give the signal?”

“I’ve thort o’ that a’ready. It’ll be all right, promise ye.”

“In what way can you arrange it?”

“This way. Thur’s a hunk o’ deer-meat in the house: I mean to fetch that out, and chuck it over thur, into the middle o’ the clarin’. Ye see them buzzarts up thur on the dead-woods?” I nodded in the affirmative. “Wal – it won’t be long afore one or other o’ them flops down to the meat; an’ the first o’ ’em that touches ground, that’ll be the signal. That’s fair enuf, I reck’n?”

“Perfectly fair,” I replied, still speaking mechanically – for the very justness of the proposal rendered my astonishment continuous.

I was something more than astonished at the altered demeanour of the man. He was fast disarming me. His unexpected behaviour had subdued my ire; and, all consideration of consequences apart, I now felt a complete disinclination for the combat! Was it too late to stay our idle strife? Such was my reflection the moment after; and, with an effort conquering my pride, I gave words to the thought.

“Yur too late, mister! ’twon’t do now,” was the reply to my pacific speech.

“And why not?” I continued to urge; though to my chagrin, I began to perceive that it was an idle effort.

“Yuv riz my dander; an’, by God! yuv got to fight for it!”

“But surely – ”

“Stop yur palaver! By the tarnal airthquake, I’ll ’gin to think you air a coward! I thort ye’d show, the white feather afore ’twur all over!”

“Enough!” cried I, stung by the taunt; “I am ready for you one way or the other. Go on.”

The squatter once more entered his cabin, and soon came out again, bringing forth the piece of venison. “Now!” cried he, “to yur stand! an’ remember! neyther fires till a bird lights on the grown! Arter that, ye may go it like blazes!”

“Stay!” said I; “there is something yet to be done. You are acting honourably in this affair – which I acknowledge is more than I was led to expect. You deserve one chance for your life; and if I should fall it will be in danger. You would be regarded as a murderer: that must not be.”

“What is’t you mean?” hurriedly interrogated my antagonist, evidently not comprehending my words. Without answering to the interrogatory, I drew out my pocket-book; and, turning to a blank leaf of the memorandum, wrote upon it: “I have fallen in fair fight.” I appended the date; signed my name; and, tearing out the leaf, handed it to my adversary. He looked at it for a moment, as if puzzled to make out what was meant. He soon saw the intention, however, as I could tell by his grim smile.

“You’re right thur!” said he, in a drawling tone, and after a pause. “I hedn’t thunk o’ that. I guess this dockyment ’ll be nothin’ the wuss o’ my name too? What’s sauce for the goose, air likewise sauce for the gander. Yur pencil, ef ye please? I ain’t much o’ a scholart; but I reck’n I kin write my name. Hyur goes!” Spreading out the paper on the top of a stump, he slowly scribbled his name below mine; and then, holding the leaf before my eyes, pointed to the signature – but without saying a word. This done, he replaced the document on the stump; and drawing his knife, stuck the blade through the paper, and left the weapon quivering in the wood! All these manoeuvres were gone through with as cool composure, as if they were only the prelude to some ordinary purpose!

“I reck’n, strenger,” said he, in the same imperturbable tone, “that’ll keep the wind from blowin’ it away, till we’ve settled who it’s to belong to. Now, to yur place! I’m agwine to throw the deer-meat!”

I had already dismounted, and stood near him rifle in hand. Unresistingly, I obeyed the request; and walked off to the stump that had been designated, without saying another word, or even looking around. I had no apprehension of being shot in the back: for the late behaviour of the man had completely disarmed me of all suspicion of treachery. I had not the slightest fear of his proving a traitor; and no more did I hold him to be a coward. That impression was gone long ago.

I confess, that never with more reluctance did I enter upon the field of fight; and at that moment, had my antagonist required it, I should not only have retracted the allegation of of cowardice, but, perhaps, have surrendered up my claim to the clearing – though I knew that this could be done, only at the expense of my name and honour. Were I to have done so, I could never have shown my face again – neither in the settlement of Swampville, nor elsewhere. Even among my polished friends of more fashionable circles, I should have been taunted – branded as a coward and poltroon! The rude character of my adversary would have been no excuse especially after the manner in which he was acting. “Backed out” would have been the universal verdict! Moreover, notwithstanding the apparently calm demeanour the squatter had now assumed – courteous I might almost call it – I knew he was implacable in his determination. There was no alternative —I must fight!

I arrived at the stump; and turning on my heel, stood facing him. He was already in his place – with the joint of venison in one hand, and his long rifle in the other. The moment was nigh, when one of us should make an abrupt exit from the world!

Such a destiny, for one or other of us, I saw depicted in the impassible face of my adversary – as plainly as if written upon the sky. I could read there, that there was no chance of escaping the combat; and I resigned myself to meet it.

“Now, mister!” cried my antagonist in a clear firm voice, “I’m agwine to chuck the meat. Remember! neyther’s to fire, till a bird lights on the ground! Arter that, ye may go it like hell!”

I saw him swing the joint once or twice round his head; I saw it jerked aloft, and then whirling through the air; I saw it falling – falling, till the sodden sound told that it had reached the ground. It was a fearful moment!

Chapter Twenty Four
Waiting the Word

In truth was it a fearful moment – one to shake the steadiest nerves, or thrill the stoutest heart. To me, it was an ordeal far more terrible than that of an ordinary duel; for there was, lacking the motive – at least on my side – which usually stimulates to an affair of honour. Sense of wrong I felt, but too slightly for revenge – not enough to steel the heart to the spilling of blood. Anger I had felt but the moment before; and then I could have fought, even to the death! But my blood, that had boiled up for an instant, now ran coldly through my veins. The unexpected behaviour of my adversary had calmed my wrath – acting upon it like oil upon troubled water.

Thus to fight without seconds; to die without friend to speak the last word of worldly adieu; or to take the life of another, without human being to attest the fairness of the act – no earthly eye beholding us – no living creature save the black vultures – appropriate instruments to give the death-signal – ominous witnesses of the dark deed: such were the appalling reflections that came before my mind, as I stood facing my determined antagonist. It would scarcely be true to say, that I felt not fear; and yet it was less cowardice, than a sort of vague vexation at risking my life in so causeless a conflict. There was something absolutely ludicrous in standing up to be shot at, merely to square with the whim of this eccentric squatter; and to shoot at him seemed equally ridiculous. Either alternative, upon reflection, appeared the very essence of absurdity: and, having ample time to reflect, while awaiting the signal, I could not help thinking how farcical was the whole affair.

No doubt, I might have laughed at it, had I been a mere looker on – herald or spectator; but, unfortunately, being a principal in this deadly duello – a real wrestler in the backwoods arena – the provocative to mirth was given in vain; and only served to heighten the solemnity of the situation. The circumstances might have elicited laughter; but the contingency, turn whatever way it might, was too serious to admit of levity on my part. Either horn of the dilemma presented a sharp point. To suffer one’s-self to be killed, in this sans façon, was little else than suicide – while to kill, smacked strongly of murder! And one or the other was the probable issue – nay, more than probable: for, as I bent my eyes on the resolute countenance of my vis-à-vis, I felt certain that there was no chance of escaping from the terrible alternative. He stood perfectly immobile – his long rifle raised to the “ready,” with its muzzle pointing towards me – and in his eye I could not read the slightest sign that he wavered in his determination! That grey-green orb was the only member that moved: his body, limbs, and features were still and rigid, as the stump behind which he stood. The eye alone showed signs of life. I could see its glance directed towards three points – in such rapid succession, that it might be said to look “three ways at once” – to the decoy upon the ground, to the shadowy forms upon the tree, and towards myself – its chief object of surveillance!

“Merciful Heavens! is there no means to avert this doom of dread? Is it an absolute necessity, that I must either kill this colossus, or be myself slain? Is there no alternative? Is there still no chance of an arrangement?”

Hopeless as it appeared, I resolved to make a last effort for peace. Once more I should try the force of an appeal. If he refused to assent to it, my position would be no worse. Better, indeed: since I stood in need of some stimulus to arouse me to an attitude, even of defence. This thought swaying me, I called out:

“Holt! you are a brave man. I know it. Why should this go on? It is not too late – ”

“You air a coward!” cried he, interrupting me, “an’ I know it – a sneakin’ coward, in spite o’ yur soger clothes! Shet up yur durned head, or ye’ll scare away the birds! an’, by the tarnal! ef you do, I’ll fire at ye, the fust that takes wing!”

“Let that be the signal, then!” cried I, roused to an impatient indignation by this new insult: “the first that takes wing!”

“Agreed!” was the quick rejoinder, delivered in a tone that bespoke determination to abide by it.

My irresolution troubled me no longer. Thus driven to bay, I felt that further forbearance would not only be idle, but dangerous. It was playing with my life, to leave it in the hands of this unrelenting enemy. Better make him suffer for his sanguinary folly, than be myself its victim. Stirred by these thoughts, I grasped my rifle – now for the first time with a determination to make use of it. By the same prompting, my eye became active – watching with resolute regard the movements of the birds, and measuring the ground that separated me from my adversary.

Notwithstanding the sting which his words had inflicted, I was yet hampered by some considerations of mercy. I had no desire to kill the man, if I could avoid it. To “cripple” him would be sufficient. I had no fear of his having the shot before me. Long practice had given me such adroitness in the use of my weapon, that I could handle it with the quickness and skill of a juggler. Neither did I fear to miss my aim. I had perfect reliance on the sureness of my sight; and, with such a mark as the huge body of the squatter, it was impossible I could miss. In this respect, the advantage was mine; and, at so short a distance, I could have insured a fatal shot – had such been my intention. But it was not. The very contrary was my wish – to draw blood without inflicting a mortal wound. This would perhaps satisfy the honour of my antagonist, and bring our strife to an end.

Whether any such consideration was in his mind, I could not tell. It was not visible in his eye – nor in his features that, throughout the whole scene, preserved their stern statue-like rigidity. There was no help for it – no alternative but to shoot at him, and shoot him down – if possible, only to wing him; but, of course, a sense of my own danger rendered this last of less than secondary importance. A single exchange of shots would, no doubt decide the affair; and the advantage would fall to him who was “quickest on the trigger.” To obtain this advantage, then, I watched with eager eye the behaviour of the birds. In like manner was my antagonist, occupied.