The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness. Майн Рид

evidence of its fertility. Why the trees grow not there, is one of Nature’s secrets, not yet revealed to man.

      It is easier to say why a squatter’s cabin is not there. There is no mystery about this: though there might appear to be, since the clearing is found ready to hand. The explanation is simple: the glade is a mile distant from water—the nearest being that of the creek already mentioned as running past the cabin of the squatter. Thus Nature, as if jealous of this pretty wild-wood garden, protects it from the defilement of man.

      Nevertheless, the human presence is not unknown to it. On this very morning—this fair morning in May, that has disclosed to our view the cabin and clearing of the squatter—a man may be observed entering the glade. The light elastic step, the lithe agile form, the smooth face, all bespeak his youth; while the style of his dress, his arms and equipments proclaim his calling to be that of a hunter.

      He is a man of the correct size, and, it may be added, of the correct shape—that is, one with whose figure the eye finds no fault. It is pleased at beholding a certain just distribution of the members promising strength and activity for the accomplishment of any possible physical end. The countenance is equally expressive of good mental qualities. The features are regular and open, to frankness. A prominent chin denotes firmness; a soft hazel eye, gentleness; and a full rounded throat, intrepid daring. There is neither beard upon the chin, nor moustache upon the lip—not that the face is too young for either, but both have been shaven off. In the way of hair, a magnificent chevelure of brown curls ruffles out under the rim of the cap, shadowing over the cheeks and neck of the wearer. Arched eyebrows, a small mouth, and regular teeth, give the finish to a face which might be regarded as a type of manly beauty.

      And yet this beauty appears under a russet garb. There is no evidence of excessive toilet-care. The brush and comb have been but sparingly used; and neither perfume nor pomatum has been employed to heighten the shine of those luxuriant locks. There is sun-tan on the face, that, perhaps with the aid of soap, might be taken off; but it is permitted to remain. The teeth, too, might be made whiter with a dentifrice and brush; but in all likelihood the nearest approach to their having ever been cleansed has been while chewing a piece of tough deer-meat. Nevertheless, without any artificial aids, the young man’s beauty proclaims itself in every feature—the more so, perhaps that, in gazing upon his face, you are impressed with the idea that there is an “outcome” in it.

      In his dress, there is not much that could be altered for the better. The hunting-shirt of the finest buckskin leather with its fringed cape and skirt, hangs upon his body with all the grace of an Athenian tunic; while its open front permits to be seen the manly contour of his breast, but half concealed under the softer fawn-skin. The wrappers of green baize, though folded more than once around his legs, do not hide their elegant tournure; and an appropriate covering for his feet is a pair of strong mocassins, soled with thick leather. A coon-skin cap sits high upon his head slightly slouched to the right. With the visage of the animal turned to the front, and the full plume-like tail, with its alternate rings, drooping to the shoulder, it forms a head-dress that is far from ungraceful. A belt around the waist—a short hunting-knife in its sheath—a large powder-horn hanging below the arm-pit—a bullet-pouch underneath, and voilà tout! No, not all, there remains to be mentioned the rifle—the arm par excellence of the American hunter. The portrait of Frank Wingrove—a dashing young backwoodsman, whose calling is the chase.

      The hunter has entered the glade, and is advancing across it. He walks slowly, but without caution—without that habitual stealthy tread that distinguishes the sons of Saint Hubert in the West. On the contrary, his step is free, and the flowers are crushed under his feet. He is not even silent; but humming a tune as he goes. Notwithstanding that he appears accoutred for the chase, his movements are not those of one in pursuit of game. For this morning, at least, he is out upon a different errand; and, judging from his jovial aspect, it should be one of pleasure. The birds themselves seem not more gay.

      On emerging from the shadow of the tall trees into the open glade effulgent with flowers, his gaiety seems to have reached its climax: it breaks forth in song; and for some minutes the forest re-echoes the well-known lay of “Woodman spare that tree.” Whence this joyous humour? Why are those eyes sparkling with a scarce concealed triumph? Is there a sweetheart expected? Is the glade to the scene of a love-interview—that glade perfumed and flowery, as if designed for such a purpose? The conjecture is reasonable: the young hunter has the air of one who keeps an assignation—one, too, who dreams not of disappointment. Near the edge of the glade, on the side opposite to that by which the hunter has come in, is a fallen tree. Its branches and bark have long since disappeared, and the trunk is bleached to a brilliant white. In the phraseology of the backwoods, it is no longer a tree, but a “log.” Towards this the hunter advances. On arriving at the log he seats himself upon it, in the attitude of one who does not anticipate being for long alone.

      There is a path that runs across the glade, bisecting it into two nearly equal parts. It is a tiny track, evidently not much used. It conducts from the stream on which stands the cabin of the squatter Holt, to another “fork” of the same river—the Obion—where clearings are numerous, and where there is also a large settlement bearing the dignified title of “town.” It is the town of Swampville—a name perhaps more appropriate than euphonious. Upon this path, where it debouches from the forest, the eye of Frank Wingrove becomes fixed—not in the direction of Swampville, but towards the clearing of the squatter. From this, it would appear probable that he expects some one; and that the person expected should come from that side. A good while passes, and yet no one answers his inquiring glance. He begins to manifest signs of impatience. As if to kill time, he repeatedly rises, and again reseats himself. With his eye he measures the altitude of the sun—the watch of the backwoodsman—and as the bright orb rises higher in the heavens, his spirits appear to sink in proportion. His look is no longer cheerful. He has long since finished his song; and his voice is now heard again, only when he utters an ejaculation of impatience. All at once the joyous expression is restored. There is a noise in the woods, and it proceeds from the right direction—a rustling of dead leaves that litter the path, and occasionally the “swish” of recoiling branches. Some one approaches the glade. The young hunter springs to his feet, and stands listening.

      Presently, he hears voices; but he hears them rather with surprise than pleasure—as is indicated by another quick change passing over his countenance. The cheerful aspect has again given place to a look of disappointment—this time approaching to chagrin. “Thar’s talk goin’ on;” mutters he to himself. “Then she’s not alone! Thar’s someb’dy along wi’ her. Who the darnation can it be?”

      After this characteristic soliloquy, he remains silent listening far more eagerly than before. The noises become more distinct, and the voices louder. More than one can be distinguished mingling in the conversation.

      For some seconds, the hunter maintains his attentive attitude—his eye sternly fixed upon the embouchure of the path. His suspense is of short duration. Hearing the voices more plainly, he recognises their tones; and the recognition appears to give another sudden turn to his thoughts. The expression of chagrin gives place to one of simple disappointment. “Bah!” exclaims he, throwing himself back upon the dead-wood. “It ain’t her, after all! It’s only a gang o’ them rovin’ red-skins. What, in Old Nick’s name, fetches ’em this way, an’ jest at the time when they ain’t wanted?”

      After a moment’s reflection, he starts up from the log, continuing to mutter: “I must hide, or they’ll be for havin’ a parley. That ’ud never do, for I guess she can’t be far off by this. Hang the crooked luck!”

      With this elegant finish, the speaker glides rapidly round the end of the fallen tree, and makes for the nearest underwood—evidently with the design of screening himself from sight. He is too late—as the “Ugh” uttered on the opposite side of the glade convinces him—and changing his intention, he fronts round, and quietly returns to his former position upon the log.

      The hunter’s conjecture has proved correct. Bronzed faces show themselves over the tops of the bushes on the opposite edge of the glade; and, the moment after, three Indians emerge into the open ground.