The silence succeeding is so profound that the slightest sound may be
heard to a considerable distance. Though not professional hunters,
these young Nimrods of the backwoods are accustomed to keep open ears.
It is a rustling among the reeds that now hinders them from resuming
conversation--the canes that hang over the trace of travel. There are
footsteps upon it, coming from the direction of Helena. They are soft
as the fall of moccasined or female foot. For all this, they are heard
distinctly in the glade--hunters, horses, and hounds having pricked up
their ears to listen.
Who comes from Helena?
The question has scarce shaped itself when the answer also assumes
shape. There are two upon the trace--the foremost, a youth of about
eighteen, the other, a girl, at least two years younger.
They are not like enough to be brother and sister. They may be of the
same mother, but not father. If their father be the same, they must
have come from two mothers.
Both are of interesting personal appearance, strikingly so. The youth
is tall, tersely and elegantly formed, with features cast in a mould
that reminds one of the Romagna; the same facial outline, the prominent
nose and chin, the eagle eye, that in childhood has glanced across the
Teverino, or the Tiber, and a complexion equally suggestive of Italian
origin, a tinge of olive in the skin, slightly damasked upon the cheeks,
with, above all, a thick _chevelure_, black as the plumage of a buzzard.
While different in mien, this youth is dressed altogether unlike any of
the young hunters who regard him from the glade. He is in true hunter
costume, slightly partaking of the garb more especially affected by the
Indian. His feet are in mocassins, his limbs encased in leggings of
green-baize cloth, a calico hunting shirt covers his shoulders; while,
instead of cap or hat, he wears the "toque," or turban, long since
adopted by the semi-civilised tribes of the frontier. He is equipped
with powder-horn and bullet-pouch, slung crossways under his arm, armed
with a long pea-rifle resting negligently over his left shoulder.
His companion has been spoken off as a girl. The designation stands
good; but to describe her will require less minuteness of detail.
Sixteen in countenance; older to judge by the budding promise of her
beauty; clad in a gown of common homespun, copperas-dyed, ill stitched,
and loosely adjusted; a skin soft as velvet, and ruddy as rude health
can make it; hair to all appearance unacquainted with combs; yet
spreading as the sun through a southern window; eyes like stars clipped
from the blue canopy of the sky. Such was she who followed, or rather
accompanied, the youth in the calico hunting shirt.
A sudden fire flashes into the eyes of Alf Brandon. It is the
expression of a spirit not friendly to one of the new comers, which may
be easily guessed, for the girl is too young and too fair to have
excited hostility in the breast of any one. It is her companion against
whom the son of the planter feels some secret resentment.
He shows it more conspicuously on a remark made by Bill Buck.
"That skunk is always sneaking about with old Rook's gal. Wonder her
dad don't show more sense than let her keep company wi' a nigger. She
ain't a goslin any more--_she_ ain't."
Buck's observation displays an animus ill concealed. He, too, has not
failed to note the hidden beauty of this forest maiden, who is the
daughter of an old hunter of rude habits, living in a cabin close by.
But the sentiments of the horse-dealer's son, less refined, are also
less keenly felt. His remarks add fuel to the fire already kindled in
the breast of Brandon.
"The nigger thinks entirely too much of himself. I propose, boys, we
take the shine out of him," said Brandon, who makes the malicious
challenge.
"Do the nigger good," chimes in Slaughter.
"But is he a nigger?" asks Spence, to whom the strange youth has been
hitherto unknown. "I should have taken him for a white."
"Three-quarters white--the rest Indian. His mother was a half-bred
Choctaw. I've often seen the lot at our store."
It is Grubbs who gives this information.
"Injun or nigger, what's the difference?" proceeded the brutal Buck.
"He's got starch enough for either; and, as you say, Alf Brandon, let's
take it out of him. All agreed, boys?"
"All! all!"
"What do you say, Judge Randall! You've not spoken yet, and as you're a
judge we wait for your decision."
"Oh, if there's fun to be had, _I'm_ with you. What do you propose
doing with him?"
"Leave that to me," says Brandon, turning to the quarter-bred, who at
this moment has arrived opposite the camp fire. "Hilloa Choc! What's
the hurry? We've been having a trial of strength here--who can hang
longest by one arm to this branch? Suppose you put in too, and see what
you can do?"
"I don't desire it; besides, I have no time to spare for sport."
The young hunter, halted for only a moment, is about to move on. The
companionship thus offered is evidently uncongenial. He suspects that
some mischief is meant. He can read it in the eyes of all six; in their
faces flushed with corn-whiskey. Their tone, too, is insulting.
"You're afraid you'll get beat," sneeringly rejoins Brandon. "Though
you have Indian blood in you, there ought to be enough white to keep you
from showing coward."
"A coward! I'll thank you not to repeat that Mr Alfred Brandon."
"Well, then, show yourself a man, and make the trial. I've heard that
you boast of having strong arms. I'll bet that I can hang longer to
that branch than you--that any of us can."
"What will you bet you can?" asks the young hunter, stirred, perhaps, by
the hope of employing his strength to a profitable purpose.
"My rifle against yours. Looking at the value of the guns, that is
quite two to one."
"Three to one," says the son of the store-keeper.
"I don't admit it," answers the hunter. "I prefer my piece to yours,
with all its silvering upon it. But I accept your challenge, and will
take the bet as you have proposed it."
"Enough. Now, boys, stand by and see fair play. You, Slaughter, you
keep time. Here's my watch."
The girl is going away; Brandon evidently wishes she should do so. He
has some design--some malice _prepense_, of which he does not desire her
to be a witness. Whatever it is he has communicated it to his fellows,
all of whom show a like willingness for Lena Rook--such is her name--to
take her departure. Their free glances and freer speech produce the
desired effect. Her father's shanty is not far off. She knows the road
without any guidance, and moves off along it, not, however, without
casting a glance towards her late travelling companion, in which might
be detected a slight shadow of apprehension.
She has not failed to notice the bearing of the boy hunters, their
insulting tone and attitude towards him of Indian taint, who, for all
that, has been the companion of her girlhood's life--the sharer of her
father's roof, rude and humble as it is. Most of those left in the
glade she knows--all of them by name--Buck and Brandon with a slight
feeling of aversion.
But she has confidence in Pierre--the only name by which she knows her
father's guest--the name given by the man who some six years before
entrusted him to her father's keeping; she knows that he is neither
child nor simpleton, and against any ordinary danger can well guard
himself.
By this sweet reflection allaying her fears she flits forward along the
forest path like a young fawn, emboldened by the knowledge that the lair
of the protecting stag is safe and near.