The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness. Reid Mayne
gentle under the influence of this all-pervading passion!
I rode on slowly and in silence – my whole soul absorbed in the contemplation of that fair being, whose image seemed still before my eyes – palpable as if present. My heart quivered under the influence of a gentle joy. The past appeared bright; the present, happiness itself; the future, full of hope. I had found the very “wilderness-home” of my longings; the fair spirit that should be my minister! No doubt rose before my mind to dim the brilliant prospect before me – no shadow hung over the horizon of my hopes. The prospect before me appeared bright and sunny as the sky above my head. Within and without the world was smiling – all nature seemed tinted with the hue of the rose! This delightful reverie lasted for a time – alas! too short a time – only while I was traversing the track, that, but the moment before, I had passed over in such pleasant companionship.
On arriving at the scene of my late adventure, a turn was given to my thoughts. It had been a scene of triumph, and deserved commemoration. The body of the panther lay across the path. His shining skin was a trophy not to be despised; and, dismounting on the spot, with my hunting-knife I secured it. I could point to it with pride – as the first spoil obtained in my new hunting-field; but I should prize it still more, as the memento of a far sweeter sentiment. In a few minutes, it was folded up, and strapped over the cantle of my saddle; and, with this odd addition to my equipage, I once more plunged into the forest-path.
For the next mile, the trace led through heavy bottom-timber, such as we had traversed, after leaving the settlement of Swampville. The black earth, of alluvial origin, was covered deeply with decayed vegetation; and the track of horses and cattle had converted the path into mud. At intervals, it was intersected by embayments of wet morass – the projecting arms of a great swamp, that appeared to run parallel with the creek. Through these, my horse, unused to such footing, passed with difficulty – often floundering up to his flanks in the mud. Though it was but the hour of noon, it more resembled night, or the late gloaming of twilight – so dark were the shadows under this umbrageous wood. As if to strengthen the illusion, I could hear the cry of the bittern, and the screech of the owl, echoing through the aisles of the forest – sounds elsewhere suggestive of night and darkness. Now and then, light shone upon the path – the light that indicates an opening in the forest; but it was not that of a friendly clearing. Only the break caused by some dismal lagoon, amidst whose dank stagnant waters even the cypress cannot grow – the habitat of black water-snakes and mud-turtles – of cranes, herons, and Qua-birds. Hundreds of these I saw perched upon the rotting half-submerged trunks – upon the cypress “knees” that rose like brown obelisks around the edge of the water; or winged their slow flight through the murky gloom, and filling the air with their deafening screams. On both sides of the trace towered gigantic trees, flanked at their bases with huge projections, that appeared like the battlements of a fortress, these singular protuberances rose far above the height of my horse – radiating from the trunks on every side, and often causing the path to take a circuitous direction. In the deep gloom, the track would have been difficult to follow, but for an occasional blaze appearing upon the smooth bark of the sycamores.
The scene was by no means suggestive of pleasant reflections – the less so, since I had ascertained, from my host of yesternight, that the greater portion of Section Number 9 was of just such a character; and that there was scarcely a spot upon it fit for a “homestead,” except the one already occupied! “Such an ‘encumbrance’ on my estate,” reflected I, “is worse than the heaviest mortgage;” and I should have been willing at that moment to part with the timber at a very “low valuation.” But I well knew the value of such a commodity. On the Thames or the Mersey, a mine of wealth – on Mud Creek, it would not have been taken as a gift! My spirits fell as I rode forward – partly influenced by the sombre scenes through which I was passing – partly by the natural reaction which ever follows the hour of sweet enjoyment – and partly, no doubt, from some unpleasant presentiments that were once more shaping themselves in my mind.
Up to this time, I had scarcely given thought to my errand, or its object. First the gay hues of the morning, and then the romantic incidents of the hour, had occupied my thoughts, and hindered me from dwelling on future plans or purposes. Now, however, that I was coming close to the clearing of the squatter, I began to feel, that I was also approaching a crisis.
Chapter Twenty One
A Rude Response
An opening of about two acres in extent, of irregular semi-circular shape, with the creek for its chord, and a worm-fence zig-zagging around its arc – scarcely a clearing: since trees bleached and barkless stand thickly over it; a log shanty, with clapboard roof, in the centre of the concavity, flanked on one side by a rude horse-shed, on the other, by a corn-crib of split rails; all three – shed, shanty, and crib – like the tower of Pisa, threatening to tumble down; near the shanty, a wood-pile, with an old axe lying upon the chop-block; by the shed and crib, a litter of white “shucks” and “cobs;” in front, among the stumps and girdled trees, a thin straggle of withered corn-stalks, shorn of their leafy tops – some standing, some trampled down: such was the picture before my eyes, as, with my horse, breast up against the fence, I looked into the clearing of Squatter Holt!
“It must be the place – my place? there is no other clearing within a mile? My directions have been given with exact minuteness of detail. I have followed them to the letter: I cannot be mistaken: I have reached Holt’s Clearing at last.”
I had ridden quite up to the fence, but could see no gate. A set of bars, however, between two roughly mortised uprights, indicated an entrance to the enclosure. The top bar was out. Not feeling inclined to dismount, I sprang my horse over the others; and then trotted forward in front of the shanty. The door stood wide open. I had hopes that the sound of my horse’s hoof-stroke would have brought some one into it; but no one came! Was there nobody within? I waited for a minute or two, listening for some sign of life in the interior of the cabin. No voice reached me – no sound of any one stirring! Perhaps the cabin was empty! Not untenanted: since I could perceive the signs of occupation, in some articles of rude furniture visible inside the doorway. Perhaps the inmates had gone out for a moment, and might be in the woods, near at hand?
I looked around the clearing, and over the fence into the forest beyond. No one to be seen no one to be heard! Without the cabin, as within, reigned a profound silence. Not a living thing in sight – save the black vultures – a score of which, perched on the dead-woods overhead, and fetid as their food, were infecting the air with their carrion odour. Although within easy range of my rifle, the foul birds took no heed of my movements; but sat still, indolently extending their broad wings to the sun – now and then one coming, one going, in slow silent flight – their very shadows seeming to flit lazily among the withered maize-plants that covered the ground.
I had no desire to appear rude. I already regretted having leaped my horse over the bars. Even that might be regarded as rather a brusque method of approach to a private dwelling; but I was in hopes it would not be noticed: since there appeared to be no one who had witnessed it. I coughed and made other noises, with like unfruitful result. My demonstrations were either not heard, or if heard, unheeded.
“Certainly,” thought I, “if there be any one in the house, they must not only hear, but see me:” for although there was no window, I could perceive that the logs were but poorly “chinked;” and from within the house, the whole clearing must have been in sight. Nay, more, the interior itself was visible from without – at least the greater part of it – and, while making this observation, I fancied I could trace the outlines of a human figure through the interstices of the logs! I became convinced it was a human figure; and furthermore, the figure of a man. It was odd he had not heard me! Was he asleep? No: that could not be – from the attitude in which he was. He appeared to be seated in a chair, but with his body erect, and his head held aloft. In such position, he could scarcely be asleep? After making this reflection, I coughed again – louder than before; but to no better purpose! I thought the figure moved. I was sure it moved; but as if with no intention of stirring from the seat! “Cool indifference!” thought I – “what can the fellow mean?” I grew impatient; and, feeling a little provoked by the inexplicable somnolency of the owner of the cabin, I determined to try whether my voice might not rouse him. “Ho!