The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness. Майн Рид

race is even recognisable in their mode of march. Though there are but three of them, and the path runs no longer among trees, they follow one another in single file, and in the true typical “trot” of the red aboriginal.

      The presence of Indians in these woods requires explanation—for their tribe has long before this time been transported to their new lands west of the Mississippi. It only needs to be said that a few families have preferred to remain—some from attachment to the scenes of their youth, not to be severed by the prospect of a far happier home; some from associations formed with the whites; and some from more trivial causes—perhaps from being the degraded outcasts of their tribes. Throughout the whole region of the backwoods, there still exists a sparse population of the indigenous race: dwelling, as their ancestors did, under tents or in the open air; trafficking in small articles of their own manufacture; in short, performing very much the same métier as the Gitanos in Europe. There are other points of resemblance between these two races—amounting almost to family likeness—and which fairly entitles the Indians to an appellation sometimes bestowed upon them—the Gipsies of the New World.

      The three Indians who have entered the glade are manifestly what is termed an “Indian family” or part of one. They are father, and mother, and daughter—the last a girl just grown to womanhood. The man is in the lead, the woman follows, and the young girl brings up the rear. They are bent upon a journey, and its object is also manifest. The pannier borne upon the back of the woman, containing fox and coon-skins, with little baskets of stained wicker—and the bead-embroidered mocassins and wampum belts that appear in the hands of the girl—bespeak a purposed visit to the settlement of Swampville.

      True to the custom “of his fathers,” the Indian himself carries nothing—if we except a long rusty gun over his shoulder, and a small hatchet in his belt: rendering him rather a formidable-looking fellow on his way to a market.

Chapter Four.

       Table of Contents

      The Catastrophe of a Kiss.

      The log on which the young hunter had seated himself is some paces distant from the path. He has a slight knowledge of this Indian family, and simply nods to them as they pass. He does not speak, lest a word should bring on a conversation—for the avoidance of which he has a powerful motive.

      The Indian makes no halt, but strides silently onward, followed by his pannier-laden squaw. The girl, however, pauses in her steps—as if struck by some sudden thought. The action quickly follows the thought; and, turning out of the path, she approaches the spot where the hunter is seated.

      What wants she with him? Can this be the she he has been expecting with such impatience? Surely not! And yet the maiden is by no means ill-looking. In her gleaming oblique eyes there is a certain sweetness of expression; and a tinge of purple-red, bursting through the bronze of her cheeks, lends to her countenance a peculiar charm. Add to this, luxuriant black hair, with a bosom of bold outlines—which the sparse savage costume but half conceals—and you have a portrait something more than pretty. Many a time and oft, in the history of backwoods life, has the heart of the proud pale-face offered sacrifice at such a shrine. Is this, then, the expected one? No. Her actions answer the question; and his too. He does not even rise to receive her, but keeps his seat upon the log—regarding her approach with a glance of indifference, not unmingled with a slight expression of displeasure.

      Her object is presently apparent. A bullet-pouch of white buckskin, richly worked with porcupine quills, is hanging over her arm. On arriving before the hunter she holds it out, as if about to present it to him. One might fancy that such is her intention; and that the pouch is designed as a gage d’amour; but the word “dollar,” which accompanies the offer, precludes the possibility of such a supposition. It is not thus that an Indian girl makes love. She is simply soliciting the pale-face to purchase. In this design she is almost certain to be successful. The pouch proclaims its value, and promises to sell itself. Certainly it is a beautiful object—with its quills of brilliant dye, and richly-embroidered shoulder-strap. Perhaps no object could be held up before the eyes of Frank Wingrove more likely to elicit his admiration.

      He sees and admires. He knows its value. It is cheap at a dollar; besides, he was just thinking of treating himself to such a one. His old catskin is worn and greasy. He has grown fastidious of late—for reasons that may be guessed. This beautiful pouch would sit well over his new hunting-shirt, and trick him out to a T. In the eyes of Marian—

      His desire to become the possessor of the coveted article hinders him from continuing the reflection. Fortunately his old pouch contains the required coin; and, in another instant, a silver dollar glances in the palm of the Indian girl.

      But the “goods” are not delivered over in the ordinary manner. A thought seems to strike the fair huckster; and she stands for a moment gazing upon the face of the handsome purchaser. Is it curiosity? Or is it, perhaps, some softer emotion that has suddenly germinated in her soul? Her hesitation lasts only for an instant. With a smile that seems to solicit, she approaches nearer to the hunter. The pouch is held aloft, with the strap extended between her hands. Her design is evident—she purposes to adjust it upon his shoulders.

      The young hunter does not repel the proffered service—how could he? It would not be Frank Wingrove to do so. On the contrary, he leans his body forward to aid in the action. The attitude brings their faces almost close together: their lips are within two inches of touching! For a moment the girl appears to have forgotten her purpose, or else she executes it in a manner sufficiently maladroit. In passing the strap over the high coon-skin cap, her fingers become entangled in the brown curls beneath. Her eyes are not directed that way: they are gazing with a basilisk glance into the eyes of the hunter.

      The attitude of Wingrove is at first shrinking; but a slight smile curling upon his lip, betokens that there is not much pain in the situation. A reflection, however, made at the moment, chases away the smile. It is this:—“ ’Tarnal earthquakes! were Marian to see me now! She’d never believe but that I’m in love with this young squaw: she’s been jealous o’ her already.”

      But the reflection passes; and with it, for an instant, the remembrance of “Marian.” The sweetest smelling flower is that which is nearest—so sings the honey-bee. Human blood cannot bear the proximity of those pretty lips; and the kindness of the Indian maiden must be recompensed by a kiss. She makes no resistance. She utters no cry. Their lips meet; but the kiss is interrupted ere it can be achieved. The bark of a dog—followed by a half-suppressed scream in a female voice—causes the interruption. The hunter starts back, looking aghast. The Indian exhibits only surprise. Both together glance across the glade. Marian Holt is standing upon its opposite edge!

      Wingrove’s cheek has turned red. Fear and shame are depicted upon his face. In his confusion he pushes the Indian aside—more rudely than gently. “Go!” he exclaims in an under voice. “For God’s sake go!—you have ruined me!”

      The girl obeys the request and gesture—both sufficiently rude after such sweet complaisance. She obeys, however; and moves off from the spot—not without reproach in her glance, and reluctance in her steps. Before reaching the path she pauses, turns in her track, and glides swiftly back towards the hunter.

      Wingrove stands astonished—half afrighted. Before he can recover himself, or divine her intent, the Indian is once more by his side. She snatches the pouch from his shoulders—the place where her own hands had suspended it—then flinging the silver coin at his feet, and uttering in a loud angry tone the words, “False pale-face!” she turns from the spot, and glides rapidly away. In another moment she has entered the forest-path, and is lost to the sight.

      The scene has been short—of only a few seconds’ duration. Marian has not moved since the moment she uttered that wild, half-suppressed scream. She stands silent and transfixed, as if its utterance had deprived her of speech and motion. Her fine form picturesquely draped with bodice and skirt; the moccasin buskins upon her feet; the coiled coronet