The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness. Майн Рид

conviction; and, I flatter myself, that, being gifted with some little sense and skill, my efforts may be crowned with success.”

      “Wal, Josh, ’ithout talkin’ o’ common sense, ye’ve good grist o’ lawyers’ sense—that I know; an’ so, I suppose, ye’ve tuk it into your head to make beginnin’ on me. Aint that why ye’ve come over this mornin’?”

      “What?”

      “To make a Mormon o’ me.”

      Up to this time the conversation had been carried on in a somewhat stiff and irrelevant manner; this more especially on the side of the squatter, who—notwithstanding his endeavours to assume an air of easy nonchalance—was evidently labouring under suspicion and constraint. From the fact of Stebbins having sent a message to forewarn him, of this visit, he knew that the schoolmaster had some business with him of more than usual importance; and it was a view to ascertain the nature of this business, and relieve himself from suspense, that the interrogatory was put. He would have been right glad to have received an answer in the affirmative—since it would have cost him little concern to turn Mormon, or profess to do so, notwithstanding his pretended opposition to the faith. He was half indulging himself in the hope that this might be the errand on which Stebbins had come: as was evinced by a more cheerful expression, on his countenance; but, as the Saint lingered long before making a reply, the shadows of suspicion again darkened over the brow of the squatter; and with a nervous uneasiness, he awaited the answer.

      “It’ll be a tough job, Josh,” said he, with an effort to appear unconcerned—“a tough job, mind ye.”

      “Well, so I should expect,” answered the apostle drily; “and, just for that reason, I don’t intend to undertake it: though I should like, Brother Holt, to see you gathered into the fold. I know our great High Priest would make much of a man like you. The Saints have many enemies; and need strong arms and stout hearts such as yours, Hickman Holt. The Lord has given to his Prophet the right to defend the true faith—even with carnal weapons, if others fail; and woe be to them who make war on us! Let them dread the Destroying Angels!”

      “The Destroying Angels! What sort o’ critters be they?”

      “They are the Danites.”

      “Wal I’m jest as wise as ever, Josh. Dod rot it, man! don’t be mystiferous. Who air the Danites, I shed like to know?”

      “You can only know them by initiation; and you should know them. You’re just the man to be one of them; and I have no doubt you’d be made one, as soon as you joined us.”

      The apostle paused, as if to note the effect of his words; but the colossal hunter appeared as if he had not heard them. It was not that he did not comprehend their meaning, but rather because he was not heeding what had been said—his mind being occupied with a presentiment of some more unpleasant proposal held in reserve by his visitor. He remained silent, however; leaving it to the latter to proceed to the declaration of his design. The suspicions of the squatter—if directed to anything connected with his family affairs—were well grounded, and soon received confirmation. After a pause, the Mormon continued:

      “No, Hickman Holt, it aint with you my business lies to-day—that is, not exactly with you.”

      “Who, then?”

      “Your daughter!”

Chapter Seven.

       Table of Contents

      The Mormon’s Demand.

      A shudder passed through the herculean frame of the hunter—though it was scarcely perceptible, from the effort he made to conceal it. It was noticed for all that; and the emotion that caused it perfectly understood. The keen eye of the ci-devant law clerk was too skilled in reading the human countenance, to be deceived by an effort at impassibility.

      “My daughter?” muttered Holt, half interrogatively.

      “Your daughter!” echoed the Mormon, with imperturbable coolness.

      “But which o’ ’em? Thur’s two.”

      “Oh! you know which I mean—Marian, of course.”

      “An’ what do ye want wi’ Marian, Josh?”

      “Come, Brother Holt? it’s no use your feigning ignorance. I’ve spoken to you of this before: you know well enough what I want with her.”

      “Durn me, if I do! I remember what ye sayed afore; but I thort ye wur only jokin’.”

      “I was in earnest then, Hickman Holt; and I’m still more in earnest now. I want a wife, and I think Marian would suit me admirably. I suppose you know that the saints have moved off from Illinois, and are now located beyond the Rocky Mountains?”

      “I’ve heern somethin’ o’t.”

      “Well, I propose going thereto join them; and I must take a wife with me: for no man is welcome who comes there without one.”

      “Y-e-s,” drawled the squatter, with a bitter smile, “an’ from what I’ve heern, I reckon he’d be more welkum if he fetched half-a-dozen.”

      “Nonsense, Hickman Holt. I wonder a man of your sense would listen to such lies. It’s a scandal that’s been scattered abroad by a set of corrupt priests and Methody preachers, who are jealous of us, because we’re drawing their people. Sheer wicked lies, every word of it!”

      “Wal, I don’t know about that. But I know one thing, to a sartinty—you will niver get Marian’s consent.”

      “I don’t want Marian’s consent—that don’t signify, so long as I have yours.”

      “Myen?”

      “Ay, yours; and I must have it. Look here, Hickman Holt! Listen to me! We’re making too long a talk about this business; and I have no time to waste in words. I have made everything ready; and shall leave for the Salt Lake before three more days have passed over my head. The caravan I’m going with is to start from Fort Smith on the Arkansas; and it’ll be prepared by the time I get there, to move over the plains. I’ve bought me a team and a waggon. It’s already loaded and packed; and there’s a corner in it left expressly for your daughter: therefore, she must go.”

      The tone of the speaker had suddenly changed, from that of saintly insinuation, to bold open menace. The squatter, notwithstanding his fierce and formidable aspect, did not dare to reply in the same strain. He was evidently cowed, and suffering under some fearful apprehension. “Must go!” he muttered, half involuntarily, as if echoing the other’s words. “Yes, must and shall!”

      “I tell ye, Josh Stebbins, she’ll niver consent.”

      “And I tell you, Hickman Holt, I don’t want her consent. That I leave you to obtain; and if you can’t get it otherwise, you must force it. Bah! what is it for? A good husband—a good home—plenty of meat, drink, and dress: for don’t you get it into your fancy that the Latter-Day Saints resemble your canting hypocrites of other creeds, who think they please God by their miserable penances. Quite the reverse, I can assure you. We mean to live as God intended men should live—eat, drink, and be merry. Look there!” The speaker exhibited a handful of shining gold pieces. “That’s the way our church provides for its apostles. Your daughter will be a thousand times better off there, than in this wretched hovel. Perhaps she will not mind the change so much as you appear to think. I know many a first-rate girl that would be glad of the chance.”

      “I know she won’t give in—far less to be made a Mormon o’. I’ve heern her speak agin ’em.”

      “I say again, she must give in. After all, you needn’t tell her I’m a Mormon: