For half a mile beyond the glade, the trace continued wide enough to
admit of our riding abreast; but, notwithstanding this advantage, no
word passed between us. My guide had relapsed into his attitude of
melancholy--deepened, no doubt, by the intelligence he had just
received--and sat loosely in his saddle, his head drooping forward over
his breast. Bitter thoughts within rendered him unconscious of what was
passing without; and I felt that any effort I might make to soften the
acerbity of his reflections would be idle.
There are moments when words of consolation may be spoken in vain--when,
instead of soothing a sorrow, they add poison to its sting. I made no
attempt, therefore, to rouse my companion from his reverie; but rode on
by his side, silent as he. Indeed, there was sufficient unpleasantness
in my own reflections to give me occupation. Though troubled by no
heart-canker of the past, I had a future before me that was neither
brilliant nor attractive. The foreknowledge I had now gained of
squatter Holt, had imbued me with a keen presentiment, that I was
treading upon the edge of a not very distant dilemma. Once, or twice,
was I on the point of communicating my business to my travelling
companion; and why not? With the openness of an honest heart, had he
confided to me the most important, as well as the most painful, secret
of his life. Why should I withhold my confidence from him on a subject
of comparatively little importance? My reason for not making a
confidant of him sooner has been already given. It no longer existed.
So far from finding in him an ally of my yet hypothetical enemy, in all
likelihood I should have him on my die. At all events, I felt certain
that I might count upon his advice; and, with his knowledge of the
_situation_, that might be worth having.
I was on the eve of declaring the object of my errand, and soliciting
his counsel thereon, when I saw him suddenly rein in, and turn towards
me. In the former movement, I imitated his example.
"The road forks here," said he. "The path on the left goes straight
down to Holt's Clarin'--the other's the way to my bit o' a shanty."
"I shall have to thank you for the very kind service you have rendered
me, and say `Good-night.'"
"No--not yet. I ain't a-goin' to leave ye, till I've put you 'ithin
sight o' Holt's cabin, tho' I can't go wi' ye to the house. As I told
ye, he an' I ain't on the best o' tarms."
"I cannot think of your coming out of your way--especially at this late
hour. I'm some little of a tracker myself; and, perhaps, I can make out
the path."
"No, stranger! Thar's places whar the trace is a'most blind, and you
mout get out o' it. Thar'll be no moon on it. It runs through a thick
timbered bottom, an' thar's an ugly bit o' swamp. As for the lateness,
I'm not very reg'lar in my hours; an' thar's a sort o' road up the crik
by which I can get home. 'Twan't to bid you good-night, that I stopped
here."
"What, then?" thought I, endeavouring to conjecture his purpose, while
he was pausing in his speech.
"Stranger!" continued he in an altered tone, "I hope you won't take
offence if I ask you a question?"
"Not much fear of that, I fancy. Ask it freely."
"Are ye sure o' a bed at Holt's?"
"Well, upon my word, to say the truth, I am by no means sure of one. It
don't signify, however. I have my old cloak and my saddle; and it
wouldn't be the first time, by hundreds, I've slept in the open air."
"My reezuns for askin' you air, that if you ain't sure o' one, an' don't
mind stretching' yourself on a bar-skin, thar's such a thing in my
shanty entirely at your sarvice."
"It is very kind of you. Perhaps I may have occasion to avail myself of
your offer. In truth, I am not very confident of meeting with a
friendly reception at the hands of your neighbour Holt--much less being
asked to partake of his hospitality."
"D'ye say so?"
"Indeed, yes. From what I have heard, I have reason to anticipate
rather a cold welcome."
"I'deed? But,"--My companion hesitated his his speech--as if meditating
some observation which he felt a delicacy about making. "I'm a'most
ashamed," continued he, at length, "to put another question, that war on
the top o' my tongue."
"I shall take pleasure in answering any question you may think proper to
ask me."
"I shedn't ask it, if it wa'n't for what you've jest now said: for I
heerd the same question put to you this night afore, an' I heerd your
answer to it. But I reckon 'twar the _way_ in which it war asked that
offended you; an' on that account your answer war jest as it should a
been."
"To what question to you refer?"
"To your bisness out here wi' Hick Holt. I don't want to know it, out
o' any curiosity o' my own--that's sartin, stranger."
"You are welcome to know all about it. Indeed, it was my intention to
have told you before we parted--at the same time to ask you for some
advice about the matter."
Without further parley, I communicated the object of my visit to Mud
Creek--concealing nothing that I deemed necessary for the elucidation of
the subject. Without a word of interruption, the young hunter heard my
story to the end. From the play of his features, as I revealed the more
salient points, I could perceive that my chances of an amicable
adjustment of my claim were far from being brilliant.
"Well--do you know," said he, when I had finished speaking, "I had a
suspeecion that that might be your bisness? I don know why I shed a
thort so; but maybe 'twar because thar's been some others come here to
settle o' late, an' found squatters on thar groun--jest the same as
Holt's on yourn. That's why ye heerd me say, a while ago, that I
shedn't like to buy over _his_ head."
"And why not?" I awaited the answer to this question, not without a
certain degree of nervous anxiety. I was beginning to comprehend the
counsel of my Nashville friend on the ticklish point of _pre-emption_.
"Why, you see, stranger--as I told you, Hick Holt's a rough customer;
an' I reckon he'll be an _ugly_ one to deal wi', on a bisness o' that
kind."
"Of course, being in possession, he may purchase the land? He has the
right of pre-emption?"
"'Taint for that. _He_ ain't a-goin' to _pre-empt_, nor buy neyther;
an' for the best o' reezuns. He hain't got a red cent in the world, an'
souldn't buy as much land as would make him a mellyun patch--not he."
"How does he get his living, then?"
"Oh, as for that, jest some'at like myself. Thar's gobs o' game in the
woods--both bar an' deer: an' the clarin' grows him corn. Thar's
squ'lls, an' 'possum, an' turkeys too; an' lots o' fish in the crik--if
one gets tired o' the bar an' deer-meat, which I shed niver do."
"But how about clothing, and other necessaries that are not found in the
woods?"
"As for our clothin' _it_ ain't hard to find. We can get that in
Swampville by swopping skins for it, or now an' then some deer-meat. O'
anythin' else, thar ain't much needed 'bout here--powder, an' lead, an'
a leetle coffee, an' tobacco. Once in a while, if ye like it, a taste
o' _old corn_."
"Corn! I thought the squatter raised that for himself?"
"So he do raise corn; but I see, stranger, you don't understand our odd
names. Thar's two kinds o' corn in these parts--that as has been to the
_still_, and that as hain't. It's the first o' these sorts that Hick
Holt likes best."
"Oh! I perceive your meaning. He's fond of a little corn-whisky, I
presume?"
"I reckon he are--that same squatter--fonder o't than milk. But
surely," continued the hunter, changing the subject, as well as the tone
of his speech--"surely, stranger, you ain't a-goin' on your bisness the
night?"
"I've just begun to think, that it _is_ rather an odd hour to enter upon
an estate. The idea didn't occur to me before."
"Besides," added he, "thar's another reezun. If Hick Holt's what he
used to be, he ain't likely to be very _nice_ about this time o' night.
I hain't seen much o' him lately; but, I reckon, he's as fond o' drink
as ever he war; an' 'tain't often he goes to _his_ bed 'ithout a
skinful. Thar's ten chances agin one, o' your findin' him wi' brick in
his hat."
"That would be awkward."
"Don't think o' goin' to-night," continued the young hunter in a
persuasive tone. "Come along wi' me; an' you can ride down to Holt's in
the mornin'. You'll then find him more reezonable to deal wi'. I can't
offer you no great show o' entertainment; but thar's a piece o'
deer-meat in the house, an' I reckon I can raise a cup o' coffee, an' a
pone or two o' bread. As for your shore, the ole corn-crib ain't quite
empty yet."
"Thanks thanks!" said I, grasping the hunter's hand in the warmth of my
gratitude. "I accept your invitation."
"This way, then, stranger!"
We struck into a path that led to the right; and, after riding about two
miles further, arrived at the solitary home of the hunter--a log-cabin
surrounded by a clearing. I soon found he was its sole occupant--as he
was its owner--some half-dozen large dogs being the only living
creatures that were present to bid us welcome. A rude horse-shed was at
hand--a "loose box," it might be termed, as it was only intended to
accommodate one--and this was placed at the disposal of my Arab. The
"critter" of my host had, for that night, to take to the woods, and
choose his stall among the trees--but to that sort of treatment he had
been well inured. A close-chinked cabin for a lodging; a bear-skin for
a bed; cold venison, corn-bread, and coffee for supper; with a pipe to
follow: all these, garnished with the cheer of a hearty welcome,
constitute an entertainment not to be despised by an old campaigner; and
such was the treatment I met with, under the hospitable _clapboard_ roof
of the young backwoodsman--Frank Wingrove.