The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness. Reid Mayne
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.
Chapter Seventeen
The Indian Summer
Look forth on the forest ere autumn wind scatters
Its frondage of scarlet, and purple, and gold:
That forest, through which the great “Father of Waters”
For thousands of years his broad current has rolled!
Gaze over that forest of opaline hue,
With a heaven above it of glorious blue,
And say is there scene, in this beautiful world,
Where Nature more gaily her flag has unfurled?
Or think’st thou, that e’en in the regions of bliss,
There’s a landscape more truly Elysian than this?
Behold the dark sumac in crimson arrayed,
Whose veins with the deadliest poison are rife!
And, side by her side, on the edge of the glade,
The sassafras laurel, restorer of life!
Behold the tall maples turned red in their hue,
And the muscadine vine, with its clusters of blue;
And the lotus, whose leaves have scarce time to unfold,
Ere they drop, to discover its berries of gold;
And the bay-tree, perfumed, never changing its sheen,
And for ever enrobed in its mantle of green!
And list to the music borne over the trees!
It falls on the ear, giving pleasure ecstatic —
The song of the birds and the hum of the bees
Commingling their tones with the ripples erratic.
Hark! hear you the red-crested cardinal’s call
From the groves of annona? – from tulip-tree tall
The mock-bird responding? – below, in the glade,
The dove softly cooing in mellower shade —
While the oriole answers in accents of mirth?
Oh, where is there melody sweeter on earth?
In infamy now the bold slanderer slumbers,
Who falsely declared ’twas a land without song!
Had he listened, as I, to those musical numbers
That liven its woods through the summer-day long —
Had he slept in the shade of its blossoming trees,
Or inhaled their sweet balm ever loading the breeze,
He would scarcely have ventured on statement so wrong —
“Her plants without perfume, her birds without song.”
Ah! closet-philosopher, sure, in that hour,
You had never beheld the magnolia’s flower?
Surely here the Hesperian gardens were found —
For how could such land to the gods be unknown?
And where is there spot upon African ground
So like to a garden a goddess would own?
And the dragon so carelessly guarding the tree,
Which the hero, whose guide was a god of the sea,
Destroyed before