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?