A HUNTER'S WOOING.
And we knew
That this rare sternness had its softness too,
That woman's charm and grace upon his being wrought;
That underneath the armor of his breast
Were springs of tenderness, all quick to flow
In sympathy with childhood's joy or woe;
That children climbed his knees, and made his arms their rest.
LONDON CHARIVARI.
It was with a heart beating with more than one excessive emotion, that
Lewis Dernor, the Rifleman, plunged into the forest with Edith Sudbury.
None knew better than he the perils that threatened them in those dim
labyrinths, and none was better prepared to encounter them. Were they
twice as many, he would rather have braved them than allowed Edith and
Sego to meet before he had declared his love to her.
In taking this step, the Rifleman had more than one twinge of
conscience, for he could but consider it of questionable propriety in
acting his part. Beyond a doubt, Sego and Edith were accepted lovers,
who had been separated for months, and it seemed cruel, to say the
least, thus to take advantage of their separation. The more he
reflected upon it, the more guilty did he feel, until he formed the
resolution to acquaint his fair charge with the presence of her lover
with the settlers, and then leave her own heart to decide the matter.
The instant this resolve was formed, the honest-hearted hunter felt
better. What though the judgment should be against him, he had done his
duty, and this very fact gave him a pleasure which nothing else could
destroy. His great, all-absorbing love for Edith had led him to use the
artifice mentioned, in order to defer the interview between her and
Sego; but, great as was this master-passion, it could lead him no
further in deception than it had already done. More than once he half
determined to turn and make his way back to the settlement, and was
only prevented by a dread of the speculation and remarks that such a
proceeding would occasion upon their part.
It must not be supposed that Lewis doubted his ability to reach the
settlement in safety, with Edith. Had he known what danger he was
doomed to encounter, he would have retraced his steps instantly,
although he had commenced them with such a strong determination to keep
her and Sego separate for a time.
For an hour or so the journey progressed in silence upon the part of
the hunter and his charge. While, as might be expected, his passion
often led his gaze from the path he was pursuing, still it made him
doubly alive to the responsibilities resting upon him, and increased
his vigilance and watchfulness to a degree that would have appeared
absurd to an ordinary observer. Most of the time, he kept a step or two
in advance of Edith, trailing his rifle in his left hand, while his
form was half bent, and his head projected forward, giving him the
attitude of constant and intense attention. His eyes were flitting
constantly from tree-top to ground, from side to side, ahead and behind
him, kindling with admiration and fire as they rested upon the form of
his companion. The latter was enveloped in a large shawl, a portion of
which covered her head, while her arms gathered the rest around her
person. Her face was inclined, so that she was not sensible of the many
ardent glances to which she was subjected. She stepped lightly forward,
her beautifully moccasined feet hardly disturbing the leaves, among
which they twinkled like some forest-flower.
Lewis had proposed to himself, when starting, to take the nearest route
to the settlement; but his apprehension for the safety of Edith led him
to change his intention after going a few miles. The Indians which he
had assisted so signally to repulse, he believed would hover around the
settlers so long as there remained an opportunity to pick off any of
them. They would not fail, too, to scour the woods in search of smaller
parties, and knowing the destination of the emigrants, would select the
very ground over which they too were journeying. The Rifleman took the
best course to avoid them. Retracing his steps some distance, he turned
off toward the creek, he having concluded to ascend this for several
miles, and then take a circuitous route to the settlement, convinced
that, in this case, the longest way was the surest.
"Why this change of direction?" asked Edith, looking up in alarm, as he
turned and commenced retracing his steps.
"I think it best," he replied, with a smile.
"Have you discovered danger? Are we pursued?"
"Not that I know of. But I have been thinking for some time that if
there _are_ any Injins in this wood, this is the very ground they will
select to cut us off, because they know that it is the one which we
would naturally take, in making such a journey as this."
"_I have full faith in you._"
And the gallant Rifleman felt he would die before any act of his should
cause her to lose this faith in him. As she turned her trusting blue
eyes up to his, their heavenly light seemed to fill his whole being,
and he scarcely was conscious of what he did when he reached out his
hand, and said:
"Edith, let me take your hand."
"Why, what need is there of that?" she coyly asked, with a roguish
look, as she half complied and half hesitated.
"I shall feel safer--that is, I shall feel more certain of your safety
if I lead you."
"Oh! well, you may lead me then," and she slid her almost fairy hand
into his hard, horny palm, with a charming simplicity, which made the
hunter's heart leap with a painful pleasure. That little, white member,
as the Rifleman grasped it, was like the poles of a battery. It sent a
shock through every part of his system, and gave his arm precisely the
same tremor that takes place when a person is charged through this limb
with electricity. If Edith had only returned the pressure, Lewis Dernor
most assuredly would never have been able to stand it, and, therefore,
it was fortunate that she did not.
It was this pressure, and the looks accompanying it, that made Edith
Sudbury conscious that the hunter loved her. She would have been an
exception to her sex had she not suspected this before. The thousand
and one acts, and little, airy nothings, had given her a suspicion of
the truth long since, but she had never felt certain of it.
This knowledge, which must ever be pleasant and flattering to the
maiden, caused no unpleasant feelings on her part. If she did not love
him, she certainly respected and admired his noble qualities, and the
difference between the emotions named and love itself is certainly too
faint for recognition. Under almost any circumstances they will grow
into the passion, and all be lost in blending. Respect is the scout and
guide that leads love to the soul.
The tell-tale blush stole on Edith's face, as a realizing sense of her
situation came upon her, and, for a long time, she dared not look up,
much less speak. Suddenly the Rifleman made a spring in the air, and
drew a deep breath, as though seized with a mortal pain.
"What's the matter?" asked Edith, in a tremor of apprehension.
"Oh! it nearly killed me!" replied the hunter, in a faint voice.
"What? Do tell me. Are you hurt? What caused it?"
"Why, Edith, _didn't you squeeze my hand_?"
"If I did, it was _certainly unintentional_."
"Never mind. I thought it was on purpose."
The merry, musical laugh of the maiden rung out through the
forest-arches, and the Rifleman, for the time, lost all thoughts of
Indians and danger; but this delightful forgetfulness could not last
long. As the faint rumble of thunder was heard in the distance, he
started, as though awakened from a dream, and looked furtively around
him, half expecting to see his dread foes start from behind the trees,
and rush upon him.
"Are you frightened?" asked Edith.
"Only for you," he replied, with a natural gallantry.
"And why are you alarmed on my account? What has occurred that makes
you walk faster, and look so constantly about you?"
"Edith," said the hunter, in a low voice of passionate tenderness, "you
have lived on the frontier long enough to be familiar with its dangers.
When I first saw you, it was in an awful situation for a gal like
yourself, but you bore it like a man. I 'spose, therefore, that there's
no use in keeping any thing back from you."
"Of course not. What good could that possibly do?"
"Well, then, it's my opinion that _some one is following us_."
"What makes you think so?" asked Edith, in genuine alarm; for there is
something startling in the sudden knowledge that a foe is pursuing us,
when there is no shelter at hand which can secure us against him.
"I can not give you the reason that makes me positive a foe is behind
us; but I am so certain of it, that we must hurry forward and take
measures to hide our trail."
"Why not rejoin our friends?"
"I do not think it can be done, as there are plenty Injin between us,
and we could not avoid them."
"Do what you think best, for surely none can know better than you."
"Come on, then."
They ascended the creek until the darkening sky, booming thunder, and
constant flashing of lightning warned them that the storm was at hand.
The hunter then stooped, and, lifting his companion in his arms with
the same ease that he would have picked up an infant, stepped into the
stream, and waded nearly across, going several hundred yards further up
before stepping upon the land. By this time, the swaying of the trees,
and the pattering of several large drops of water, told them that they
had but a few minutes to spare. The hunter was perfectly acquainted
with this section, and made all haste toward a spot which, more than
once, had served him as a shelter in such storms as this. It consisted
of a number of fallen trees, evidently torn up by some tornado, whose
branches were so interlocked and matted that a slight effort of the
hand of man had turned into a comfortable security as one need wish who
was storm-stayed in the forest.
As this was reached, the storm burst upon them in all its grand fury,
but their refuge answered every purpose, and not a thread of Edith's
clothes was wetted. Darkness came on prematurely, and, as the reader
already knows, the storm continued nearly through the entire night.
Fully, and almost morbidly alive to the danger that ever menaced them,
Lewis kept his station at the mouth or entrance of their shelter until
daylight, not willing that for a moment a free entrance to any foe
should be offered.
When morning dawned, it was clear and beautiful, and the two set out
immediately upon their journey. As they had partaken of no food for a
considerable time, the Rifleman was on the alert to procure some. The
forests of Kentucky and Ohio, at that day, literally swarmed with game,
and, in less than a half-hour from starting, he had brought down a wild
turkey, which was dressed and cooked with admirable skill, and which
afforded them a nourishing and substantial meal.
Lewis was fearful that the late storm would cause such a rise in the
creek that he would be unable to cross if he waited any longer, and he,
therefore, attempted it at once. He found it muddy and rapidly rising,
but he carried Edith over without difficulty, and then resumed his
journey, taking such a direction that he could only reach the
settlement by a wide _detour_ from directness.
"At any rate," said Dernor, "if any one attempted to follow us
yesterday, he is thrown off the track, and has got to commence again."
"Should they accidentally come across our trail, it would be easy
enough for them to follow it, would it not?"
"Yes, any one could do that, but you see we're so far up the stream
that there is little likelihood of that."
"I _do_ hope the Indians will not trouble us more," said Edith, in a
low, earnest voice.
"And so do I," said the Rifleman, in a lower and more earnest voice,
and venturing at the same time to press the hand that he held within
his own.
There certainly was something in the situation of these two calculated
to inspire mutual trust. Edith felt that, under the merciful Being who
was ever watching her, there was no stronger or more faithful arm upon
which she could rely than the one beside her--that there was no heart
truer, and no devotion more trustworthy. Under these circumstances, her
words were quite unembarrassed and familiar.
"Suppose we _are_ overtaken?" she asked, looking up in his face.
"_You_ will never be captured while _I_ have strength to defend you,"
was the fervent reply.
"You are too kind and noble."
This time Edith impulsively pressed his hand, and, to his dying day,
Lewis Dernor affirmed that this was one of the happiest moments of his
life. Deeply learned as he was in wood-lore, he was a perfect novice in
the subtle mysteries of the tender passion, and the cause of his
ecstasy on this occasion was the sudden certainty that his love was
returned. Had he been less a novice in such matters, he would have
reflected that this slight evidence of regard most probably was but a
mere momentary emotion which any man in his situation might have
inspired. But, "where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise;" and
the happy hunter was all unconscious of this disagreeable possibility.
He felt an unutterable desire to say something--something grand and
terrible--which would give Edith a faint idea of the strength of the
passion burning in his breast. Inability to say this something kept him
silent for a long period. Several times, indeed, he was on the point of
speaking, but the words that came to him were too commonplace and weak
to express his tumultuous thoughts. Just as he was on the point of
deciding upon something, it came to him with startling suddenness that
he was too careless with his charge. For the last hour he had hardly
been conscious that he was traveling in the woods, much less that in
these same woods lurked the deadly Indian, whose thoughts were
constantly bent upon murder and outrage.
"Edith," said he, "I would do any thing if it would only place us where
we could talk without fear of being disturbed. But it can't be done
here. There's Injins in these woods, and I'd never forgive myself if I
should forget it agin, and I've already done so several times. Just
stop a minute."
He took her hand, and the two bent forward in the attitude of intense
listening; and listening thus, they heard faintly in the distance the
report of a rifle. It was several miles away, and evidently fired by
some wandering Indian or hunter. Its only effect upon our friends was
that peculiar one of making them more fully sensible that there were
other beings in the woods besides themselves.
"It means nothing," said Dernor. "Let's go on, but more careful than
before."
"Do you think there is any one following us?" asked Edith, for this
constant renewal of her apprehension made her nervous and unnaturally
suspicious.
"I have no reason to think so, and I haven't any suspicion that there
is. So I guess there's no need of being scared."
"I can not help feeling frightened," said Edith, clinging closer to
him. "I do wish we were at the settlement. How much longer will it take
us to reach it?"
"To-morrow, at the very furthest, I hope we shall be there, and perhaps
to-night, if we keep up a brisk walk."
"I see no reason why we should not hurry."
"Nor I, either," laughed Dernor. "So come on."
He struck up a brisk walk as he spoke, and continued it for some twenty
minutes, when a small creek was reached, the one where O'Hara and
Allmat lost the trail. Before wading it, the Rifleman paused on its
banks as if in deep thought. This was so marked that Edith questioned
him.
"I'm thinking whether it wouldn't be best to put this brook to the same
use that I did last summer. A half-dozen Miamis got rather closer to me
than was pleasant, when I jumped in here and threw them off the scent."
"How?"
"I will show you."
He picked her up as he spoke, and stepped carefully into the water. The
center of the stream was sufficiently deep to hide his trail, even had
the bottom been less favorable than it was. But this was hard, gravelly
and pebbly, and he walked close to the edge without fear of betraying
himself.
Having gone a considerable distance, he approached the bank, and made a
leap which carried him several feet upon it. He alighted upon the face
of a large, firmly-fixed stone, where, poising himself for a moment, he
sprung to another; and then, making a fourth leap, came down upon the
ground. By this artifice he avoided leaving any visible trail until so
far from the creek that almost any pursuer would fail to discover it.
This explains why his two pursuers did fail in pursuing him.
"We're safe again for a while," said the Rifleman. "Any one who comes
upon our track must do it between us and the creek."
"I feel greatly relieved," said Edith.
"And much more comfortable, I suppose?"
"Why, of course," she replied, half laughing, as she turned her
gleaming, radiant face up to his.
The Rifleman hardly knew what he did. A mist seemed to come before his
eyes, and he felt as though floating in space, as, acting under an
electrifying impulse, he stooped and kissed the warm lips of his fair
companion. This transport of bliss was changed to the most utter misery
when she answered, with every appearance of anger:
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself to take advantage of my
helplessness."
"Are you offended?" he asked, his very voice showing his wretchedness
of feeling.
Edith looked up with flashing eyes, crimsoned face, and silent voice,
as if she would annihilate him by her very look. Gradually a change,
like the sunlight breaking through the storm-clouds, overspread her
features. The light of her eyes grew softer, and the expression of her
face more merciful, until, as the hunter had paused and scarcely
breathed for her reply, she said, with one of her most enchanting
smiles:
"I am not offended. You may kiss me again if you wish to do so."
"If I wish to," said the Rifleman, drawing her to him. "If I wish
to----"
Here his words became unintelligible. He continued kissing her until
she checked him.
"Sh!"
The crackling of some bushes a few yards away showed that they were no
longer alone. The whole aspect of the Rifleman changed. The lover
became the ranger instantly. Cocking his rifle, he placed himself in
front of Edith so as to confront this unexpected danger.