Chapter Thirteen
Through the Forest

As we passed up the street, I was conscious of being the subject of Swampville speculation. Staring faces at the windows, and gaping groups around the doors, proved by their looks and gestures, that I was regarded as a rare spectacle. It could scarcely be my companion who was the object of this universal curiosity. A buckskin hunting-shirt was an everyday sight in Swampville – not so a well-mounted military man, armed, uniformed, and equipped. No doubt, my splendid Arab, caracoling as if he had not been out of the stable for a week, came in for a large share of the admiration.

We were soon beyond its reach. Five minutes sufficed to carry us out of sight of the Swampvillians: for, in that short space of time, we had cleared the suburbs of the “city,” and were riding under the shadows of an unbroken forest. Its cold gloom gave instantaneous relief – shading us at one and the same time from the fiery sun, and the glances of vulgar observation through which we had run the gauntlet. I at least enjoyed the change; and for some minutes we rode silently on, my guide keeping in advance of me.

This mode of progression was not voluntary, but a necessity, arising from the nature of the road – which was a mere “trace” or bridle-path “blazed” across the forest. No wheel had ever made its track in the soft deep mud – into which, at every step, our steeds sank far above the fetlocks – and, as there was not room for two riders abreast, I followed the injunction of my companion by keeping my horse’s head “at the tail o’ his’n.” In this fashion we progressed for a mile or more, through a tract of what is termed “bottom-timber” – a forest of those gigantic water-loving trees – the sycamore and cotton-wood. Their tall grey trunks rose along the path, standing thickly on each side, and sometimes in regular rows, like the columns of a grand temple. I felt a secret satisfaction in gazing upon these colossal forms: for my heart hailed them as the companions of my future solitude. At the same time I could not help the reflection, that, if my new estate was thus heavily encumbered, the clearing of the squatter was not likely to be extended beyond whatever limits the axe of Mr Holt had already assigned to it.

A little further on, the path began to ascend. We had passed out of the bottom-lands, and were crossing a ridge, which forms the divide between Mud Creek and the Obion River. The soil was now a dry gravel, with less signs of fertility, and covered with a pine-forest. The trees were of slender growth; and at intervals their trunks stood far apart, giving us an opportunity to ride side by side. This was exactly what I wanted: as I was longing for a conversation with my new acquaintance.

Up to this time, he had observed a profound silence; but for all that, I fancied he was not disinclined to a little causerie. His reserve seemed to spring from a sense of modest delicacy – as if he did not desire to take the initiative. I relieved him from this embarrassment, by opening the dialogue: – “What sort of a gentleman is this Mr Holt?”

“Gentleman!”

“Yes – what sort of person is he?”

“Oh, what sort o’ person. Well, stranger, he’s what we, in these parts, call a rough customer.”

“Indeed?”

“Rayther, I shed say.”

“Is he what you call a poor man?”

“All that I reckon. He hain’t got nothin’, as I knows on, ’ceptin’ his old critter o’ a hoss, an’ his clarin’ o’ a couple o’ acres or thereabout; besides, he only squats upon that.”

“He’s only a squatter, then?”

“That’s all, stranger; tho’ I reckon he considers the clarin’ as much his own as I do my bit o’ ground, that’s been bought an’ paid for.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes – I shedn’t like to be the party that would buy it over his head.”

The speaker accompanied these words with a significant glance, which seemed to say, “I wonder if that’s his business here.”

“Has he any family?”

“Thar’s one – a young critter o’ a girl.”

“That all?” I asked – seeing that my companion hesitated, as if he had something more to say, but was backward about declaring it.

“No, stranger – thar war another girl – older than this ’un.”

“And she?”

“She – she’s gone away.”

“Married, I suppose?”

“That’s what nobody ’bout here can tell nor whar she’s gone, neyther.”

The tone in which the young fellow spoke had suddenly altered from gay to grave; and, by a glimpse of the moonlight, I could perceive that his countenance was shadowed and sombre. I could have but little doubt as to the cause of this transformation. It was to be found in the subject of our conversation – the absent daughter of the squatter. From motives of delicacy I refrained from pushing my inquiries farther; but, indeed, I should have been otherwise prevented from doing so: for, just at that moment, the road once more narrowed, and we were forced apart. By the eager urging of his horse into the dark path, I could perceive that the hunter was desirous of terminating a dialogue – to him, in all probability, suggestive of bitter memories.

For another half hour we rode on in silence – my companion apparently buried in a reverie of thought – myself speculating on the chances of an unpleasant encounter: which, from the hints I had just had, was now rather certain than probable. Instead of a welcome from the squatter, and a bed in the corner of his cabin, I had before my mind the prospect of a wordy war; and, perhaps afterwards, of spending my night in the woods. Once or twice, I was on the point of proclaiming my errand, and asking the young hunter for advice as how I should act; but as I had not yet ascertained whether he was friend or foe of my future hypothetical antagonist, I thought it more prudent to keep my secret to myself.

His voice again fell upon my ear – this time in a more cheerful tone. It was simply to say, that I “might shortly expect a better road – we were approaching a ‘gleed;’ beyont that the trace war wider, an’ we might ride thegither again.”

We were just entering the glade, as he finished speaking – an opening in the woods of limited extent. The contrast between it and the dark forest-path we had traversed was striking – as the change itself was pleasant. It was like emerging suddenly from darkness into daylight: for the full moon, now soaring high above the spray of the forest, filled the glade with the ample effulgence of her light. The dew-besprinkled flowers were sparkling like gems; and, even though it was night, their exquisite aroma had reached us afar off in the forest. There was not a breath of air stirring; and the unruffled leaves presented the sheen of shining metal. Under the clear moonlight, I could distinguish the varied hues of the frondage – that of the red maple from the scarlet sumacs and sassafras laurels; and these again, from the dark-green of the Carolina bay-trees, and the silvery foliage of the Magnolia glauca.

Even before entering the glade, this magnificent panorama had burst upon my sight – from a little embayment that formed the debouchure of the path – and I had drawn bridle, in order for a moment to enjoy its contemplation. The young hunter was still the length of his horse in advance of me; and I was about requesting him to pull up; but before I could give utterance to the words, I saw him make halt of himself. This, however, was done in so awkward and hurried a manner, that I at once turned from gazing upon the scene, and fixed my eyes upon my companion. As if by an involuntary effort, he had drawn his horse almost upon his haunches: and was now stiffly seated in the saddle, with blanched cheeks and eyes sparkling in their sockets – as if some object of terror was before him! I did not ask for an explanation. I knew that the object that so strangely affected him must be visible – though not from the point where I had halted.

A touch of the spur brought my horse alongside his, and gave me a view of the whole surface of the glade. I looked in the direction indicated by the attitude of the hunter: for – apparently paralysed by some terrible surprise – he had neither pointed nor spoken.

A little to the right of the path, I beheld a white object lying along the ground – a dead tree, whose barkless trunk and smooth naked branches gleamed under the moonlight with the whiteness of a blanched skeleton. In front of this, and a pace or two from it, was a dark form, upright and human-like. Favoured by the clear light of the moon, I had no difficulty in distinguishing the form to be that of a woman.

Chapter Fourteen
Su-Wa-Nee

Beyond doubt, the dark form was that of a woman – a young one too, as evinced by her erect bearing, and a light agile movement, made at the moment of our first beholding her. Her attire was odd. It consisted of a brownish-coloured tunic – apparently of doeskin leather – reaching from the neck to the knees; underneath which appeared leggings of like material, ending in mocassins that covered the feet. The arms, neck, and head were entirely bare; and the colour of the skin, as seen in the moonlight, differed from that of the outer garments only in being a shade or two darker! The woman, therefore, was not white, but an Indian: as was made further manifest by the sparkling of beads and bangles around her neck, rings in her ears, and metal circlets upon her arms – all reflecting the light of the moon in copious coruscations. As I brought my horse to a halt, I perceived that the figure was advancing towards us, and with rapid step. My steed set his ears, and snorted with affright. The jade of the hunter had already given the example – each, no doubt, acting under the impulse of the rider. Mine was a feeling of simple astonishment. Such an apparition in that place, and at that hour, was sufficient cause for surprise; but a more definite reason was, my observing that a different emotion had been roused in the breast of the young hunter. His looks betrayed fear, rather than surprise! “Fear of what?” I asked myself, as the figure advanced; and still more emphatically as it came near enough to enable me to make out the face. As far as the moonlight would permit me to judge, there was nothing in that face to fray either man or horse: certainly nothing to create an emotion, such as was depicted in the countenance of my companion.

The complexion was brown, as already observed; but the features, if not of the finest type, were yet comely enough to attract admiration; and they were lit up by a pair of eyes, whose liquid glance rivalled the sheen of the golden pendants sparkling on each side of them. I should have been truly astonished at the behaviour of my guide, but for the natural reflection, that there was some cause for it, yet unknown to me. Evidently, it was not his first interview with the forest maiden: for I could now perceive that the person who approached was not exactly a woman, but rather a well-grown girl on the eve of womanhood. She was of large stature, nevertheless, with bold outline of breast, and arms that gave token of something more than feminine strength. In truth, she appeared possessed of a physique sufficiently formidable to inspire a cowardly man with fear – had such been her object – but I could perceive no signs of menace in her manner. Neither could cowardice be an attribute of my travelling-companion. There was an unexplained something, therefore, to account for his present display of emotion.

On arriving within six paces of the heads of our horses, the Indian paused, as if hesitating to advance. Up to this time, she had not spoken a word. Neither had my companion – beyond a phrase or two that had involuntarily escaped him, on first discovering her presence in the glade. “She here? an’ at this time o’ night!” I had heard him mutter to himself; but nothing more, until the girl had stopped, as described. Then, in a low voice, and with a slightly trembling accent, he pronounced interrogatively, the words “Su-wa-nee?” It was the name of the Indian maiden; but there was no reply.

“Su-wa-nee!” repeated he, in a louder tone, “is it you?”

The answer was also given interrogatively, “Has the White Eagle lost his eyes, by gazing too long on the pale-faced fair ones of Swampville? There is light in the sky, and the face of Su-wa-nee is turned to it. Let him look on it: it is not lovely like that of the half-blood, but the White Eagle will never see that face again.”

This declaration had a visible effect on the young hunter: the shade of sadness deepened upon his features: and I could hear a sigh, with difficulty suppressed – while, at the same time, he appeared desirous of terminating the interview.

“It’s late, girl,” rejoined he, after a pause: “what for are ye here?”

“Su-wa-nee is here for a purpose. For hours she has been waiting to see the White Eagle. The soft hands of the pale-faced maidens have held him long.”

“Waitin’ to see me! What do you want wi’ me?”

“Let the White Eagle send the stranger aside. Su-wa-nee must speak to him alone.”

“Thar’s no need o’ that: it’s a friend that’s wi’ me.”

“Would the White Eagle have his secrets known? There are some he may not wish even a friend to hear. Su-wa-nee can tell him one that will crimson his cheeks like the flowers of the red maple.”

“I have no saycrets, girl – none as I’m afraid o’ bein’ heerd by anybody.”

“What of the half-blood?”

“I don’t care to hear o’ her.”

“The White Eagle speaks falsely! He does care to hear. He longs to know what has become of his lost Marian. Su-wa-nee can tell him.”

The last words produced an instantaneous change in the bearing of the young hunter. Instead of the repelling attitude, he had hitherto observed towards the Indian girl, I saw him bend eagerly forward – as if desirous of hearing what she had to say. Seeing that she had drawn his attention, the Indian again pointed to me, and inquired: “Is the pale-faced stranger to know the love-secrets of the White Eagle?”

I saw that my companion no longer desired me to be a listener. Without waiting for his reply, I drew my horse’s head in the opposite direction, and was riding away. In the turning, I came face to face with him; and by the moonlight shining full over his countenance, I fancied I could detect some traces of mistrust still lingering upon it. My fancy was not at fault: for, on brushing close past him, he leaned over towards me, and, in an earnest manner, muttered: “Please, stranger! don’t go fur – thar’s danger in this girl. She’s been arter me before.” I nodded assent to his request; and, turning back into the little bay, that formed the embouchure of the path, I pulled up under the shadow of the trees.

At this point I was not ten paces from the hunter, and could see him; but a little clump of white magnolias prevented me from seeing the girl – at the same time that it hid both myself and horse from her sight. The chirrup of the cicadas alone hindered me from hearing all of what was said; but many words reached my ear, and with sufficient distinctness, to give me a clue to the subject of the promised revelation. Delicacy would have prompted me to retire a little farther off; but the singular caution I had received from my companion, prevented me from obeying its impulse.

I could make out that a certain Marian was the subject of the conversation; and then more distinctively, that it was Marian Holt. Just as I expected, the daughter of my squatter: that other and older one, of whom mention had been already made. This part of the revelation was easily understood: since I was already better than half prepared for it. Equally easy of comprehension was the fact, that this Marian was the sweetheart of my travelling companion —had been, I should rather say; for, from what followed, I could gather that she was no longer in the neighbourhood; that some months before she had left it, or been carried away – spirited off in some mysterious manner, leaving no traces of the why or whither she had gone. Nearly all this I had conjectured before: since the young hunter had half revealed it to me by his manner, if not by words. Now, however, a point or two was added to my previous information relating to the fair Marian. She was married. Married – and to some odd sort of man, of whom the Indian appeared to speak slightingly. His name I could make out to be Steevens, or Steebins, or something of the sort – not very intelligible by the Indian’s mode of pronouncing it – and, furthermore, that he had been a schoolmaster in Swampville.

During the progress of the dialogue, I had my eye fixed on the young hunter. I could perceive that the announcement of the marriage was quite new to him; and its effect was as that of a sudden blow. Of course, equally unknown to him had been the name of the husband; though from the exclamatory phrase that followed, he had no doubt had his conjectures.

“O God!” he exclaimed, “I thort so – the very man to a’ done it. Lord ha’ mercy on her!” All this was uttered with a voice hoarse with emotion. “Tell me!” continued he, “whar are they gone? Ye say ye know!”

The shrill screech of a tree-cricket, breaking forth at that moment, hindered me from hearing the reply. The more emphatic words only reached me, and these appeared to be “Utah” and “Great Salt Lake.” They were enough to fix the whereabouts of Marian Holt and her husband.

“One question more!” said the rejected lover hesitatingly, as if afraid to ask it. “Can ye tell me – whether – she went willingly, or whether – thar wan’t some force used? – by her father, or some un else? Can ye tell me that, girl?”

I listened eagerly for the response. Its importance can be easily understood by one who has sued in vain – one who has wooed without winning. The silence of the cicada favoured me; but a long interval passed, and there came not a word from the lips of the Indian.

“Answer me, Su-wa-nee!” repeated the young man in a more appealing tone. “Tell me that, and I promise – ”

“Will the White Eagle promise to forget his lost love? Will he promise – ”

“No, Su-wa-nee; I cannot promise that: I can niver forget her.”

“The heart can hate without forgetting.”

“Hate her? hate Marian? No! no!”

“Not if she be false?”

“How do I know that she war false? You haven’t told me whether she went willin’ly or agin her consent.”

“The White Eagle shall know then. His gentle doe went willingly to the covert of the wolf —willingly, I repeat. Su-wa-nee can give proof of her words.”

This was the most terrible stroke of all. I could see the hunter shrink in his saddle, a death-like pallor over-spreading his cheeks, while his eyes presented the glassy aspect of despair.

“Now!” continued the Indian, as if taking advantage of the blow she had struck, “will the White Eagle promise to sigh no more after his false mistress? Will he promise to love one that can be true?”

There was an earnestness in the tone in which these interrogatories were uttered – an appealing earnestness – evidently prompted by a burning headlong passion. It was now the turn of her who uttered them, to wait with anxiety for a response. It came at length – perhaps to the laceration of that proud heart: for it was a negative to its dearest desire.

“No, no!” exclaimed the hunter confusedly. “Impossible eyther to hate or forget her. She may a been false, an’ no doubt are so; but it’s too late for me: I can niver love agin.”

A half-suppressed scream followed this declaration, succeeded by some words that appeared to be uttered in a tone of menace or reproach. But the words were in the Chicasaw tongue, and I could not comprehend their import.

Almost at the same instant, I saw the young hunter hurriedly draw back his horse – as if to get out of the way. I fancied that the crisis had arrived, when my presence might be required. Under this belief, I touched my steed with the spur, and trotted out into the open ground. To my astonishment, I perceived that the hunter was alone. Su-wa-nee had disappeared from the glade!