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<h3>Chapter Fifteen.</h3> <h4>Making a Clean Breast of it.</h4> “Where is she?—gone?” I mechanically asked, in a tone that must have betrayed my surprise. “Yes—gone! gone! an’ wi’ a Mormon!” “A Mormon?” “Ay, stranger, a Mormon—a man wi’ twenty wives! God forgi’ her! I’d rather heerd o’ her death!” “Was there a man with her? I saw no one.” “O stranger, excuse my talk—you’re thinkin’ o’ that ere Injun girl. ’Taint her I’m speakin’ about.” “Who then?” The young hunter hesitated: he was not aware that I was already in possession of his secret; but he knew that I had been witness of his emotions, and to declare the name would be to reveal the most sacred thought of his heart. Only for a moment did he appear to reflect; and then, as if relieved from his embarrassment, by some sudden determination, he replied: “Stranger! I don’t see why I shedn’t tell ye all about this bisness. I don know the reezun, but you’ve made me feel a kind o’ confidence in you. I know it’s a silly sort o’ thing to fall in love wi’ a handsum girl; but if ye’d only seen her!” “I have no doubt, from what you say, she was a beautiful creature,”—this was scarcely my thought at the moment—“and as for falling in love with a pretty girl, none of us are exempt from that little weakness. The proud Roman conqueror yielded to the seductions of the brown-skinned Egyptian queen; and even Hercules himself was conquered by a woman’s charms. There is no particular silliness in that. It is but the common destiny of man.” “Well, stranger, it’s been myen; an’ I’ve hed reezun to be sorry for it. But it’s no use tryin’ to shet up the stable arter the hoss’s been stole out o’t. She are gone now; an’ that’s the end o’ it. I reckon I’ll niver set eyes on her agin.” The sigh that accompanied this last observation, with the melancholy tone in which it was uttered, told me that I was talking to a man who had truly loved. “No doubt,” thought I, “some strapping backwoods wench has been the object of his passion,”—for what other idea could I have about the child of a coarse and illiterate squatter? “Love is as blind as a bat; and this red-haired hoyden has appeared a perfect Venus in the eyes of the handsome fellow—as not unfrequently happens. A Venus with evidently a slight admixture of the prudential Juno in her composition. The young backwoodsman is poor; the schoolmaster perhaps a little better off; in all probability not much, but enough to decide the preference of the shrewd Marian.” Such were my reflections at the moment, partly suggested by my own experience. “But you have not yet told me who this sweetheart was? You say it is not the Indian damsel you’ve just parted with?” “No, stranger, nothin’ o’ the kind: though there are some Injun in her too. ’Twar o’ her the girl spoke when ye heerd her talk o’ a half-blood. She aint just that—she’s more white than Injun; her mother only war a half-blood—o’ the Chicasaw nation, that used to belong in these parts.” “Her name?” “It war Marian Holt. It are now Stebbins, I s’pose! since I’ve jest heerd she’s married to a fellow o’ that name.” “She has certainly not improved her name.” “She are the daughter o’ Holt the squatter—the same whar you say you’re a-goin’. Thar’s another, as I told ye; but she’s a younger un. Her name’s Lilian.” “A pretty name. The older sister was very beautiful you say?” “I niver set eyes on the like o’ her.” “Does the younger one resemble her?” “Ain’t a bit like her—different as a squ’ll from a coon.” “She’s more beautiful, then?” “Well, that depends upon people’s ways o’ thinkin’. Most people as know ’em liked Lilian the best, an’ thort her the handsumest o’ the two. That wan’t my notion. Besides, Lilly’s only a young crittur—not out o’ her teens yit.” “But if she be also pretty, why not try to fall in love with her? Down in Mexico, where I’ve been lately, they have a shrewd saying: Un clavo saca otro clavo, meaning that ‘one nail drives out another’—as much as to say, that one love cures another.” “Ah, stranger! that may be all be very well in Mexico, whar I’ve heerd they ain’t partickler about thar way o’ lovin’: but we’ve a sayin’ here jest the contrairy o’ that: ‘two bars can’t get into the same trap.’” “Ha, ha, ha! Well your backwoods proverb is perhaps the truer one, as it is the more honest. But you have not yet told me the full particulars of your affair with Marian? You say she has gone away from the neighbourhood?” “You shall hear it all, stranger. I reckon thar can be no harm in tellin’ it to you; an’ if you’ve a mind to listen, I’ll make a clean breast o’ the whole bisness.” The hunter proceeded with his revelation—to him, a painful one—and, although I had already divined most of the particulars, I interrupted him only with an occasional interrogative. The story was as I had anticipated. He had been in love with Marian Holt; and was under the impression that she returned it. She had given him frequent meetings in the forest—in that very glade where we had encountered the Indian girl, and in which we were still lingering. Her father was not aware of these interviews. There had been some coolness between him and the young hunter; and the lovers were apprehensive that he might not approve of their conduct. This was the prologue of the hunter’s story. The epilogue I give in his own words: “’Twar a mornin’—jest five months ago—she had promised to meet me here—an’ I war seated on yonder log waitin’ for her. Jest then some Injuns war comin’ through the gleed. That girl ye saw war one o’ ’em. She had a nice bullet-pouch to sell, an’ I bought it. The girl would insist on puttin’ it on; an’ while she war doin’ so, I war fool enough to gie her a kiss. Some devil hed put it in my head. Jest at that minnit, who shed come right into the gleed but Marian herself! I meant nothin’ by kissin’ the Injun; but I s’pose Marian thort I did: she’d already talked to me ’bout this very girl; an’ I believe war a leetle bit jealous o’ her—for the Injun ain’t to say ill-lookin’. I wanted to ’pologise to Marian; but she wouldn’t listen to a word; an’ went off in a way I niver seed her in before. ’Twar the last time I ever set eyes on her.” “Indeed.” “Ay, stranger, an’ it’s only this minnit, an’ from that same Injun girl, that I’ve heard she’s married, an’ gone off to the Mormons. The Injuns had it from some o’ her people, that seed Marian a crossin’ the parairies.” “That Indian damsel—Su-wa-nee, I think you named her—what of her?” “Ah! stranger, that’s another o’ the konsequences o’ doin’ what aint right. Since the day I gin her that kiss, she’d niver let me alone, but used to bother me every time I met her in the woods; an’ would a come arter me to my own cabin, if it hadn’t been for the dogs, that wud tar an Injun to pieces. She war afeerd o’ them but not o’ me, no matter how I thraitened her. I war so angry wi’ her, for what had happened—though arter all, ’twar more my fault than hern—but I war so vexed wi’ her about the ill-luck, that I used to keep out o’ her way as well as I could, an’ didn’t speak to her for a long time. She got riled ’bout that, an’ thraitened revenge; an’ one night, as I war comin’ from Swampville, ’bout this time—only ’twar as dark as a pot o’ pitch—I war jest ridin’ out into this very gleed, when all o’ a suddint my ole hoss gin a jump forrard, an I feeled somethin’ prick me from behind. ’Twar the stab o’ some sort o’ a knife, that cut me a leetle above the hip, an’ made me bleed like a buck. I know’d who did it; tho’ not that night—for it war so dark among the bushes, I couldn’t see a steim. But I kim back in the mornin’, and seed tracks. They war the tracks o’ a mocassin. I know’d ’em to be hern.” “Su-wa-nee’s tracks?” “Sartin. I know’d ’em well enough, as I’d often seed her tracks through the crik bottom.” “Did you take no steps to punish her?” “Well—no—I didn’t.” “How is that? I think it would have been prudent of you to have done something—if only to prevent a recurrence of the danger.” “Well, stranger! to tell truth, I war a leetle ashamed o’ the whole bisness. Had it been a man, I’d a punished him; but they do say the girl’s in love wi’ me, arter her Injun way; an’ I didn’t like to be revengeful. Besides it war mostly my own fault: I had no bisness to a fooled wi’ her.” “And you think she will not trouble you again?” “I don know about that, arter what’s happened the night. She’s gone away thraitnin’ agin. I did think she’d gin up the notion o’ revenge: for she know’d I’d found out that ’twar her that stabbed me. I told her so, the next time I seed her; an’ she ’peared pleased ’bout my not havin’ her ta’en up. She said it war generous of the White Eagle—that’s the name her people gies me—for thar’s a gang o’ them still livin’ down the crik. She gin me a sort of promise she wouldn’t trouble me agin; but I warn’t sure o’ her. That’s the reezun, stranger, I didn’t want ye to go fur away.” “I think it would be prudent in you to keep well on your guard. This redskin appears to be rather an unreflecting damsel; and, from what you have told me, a dangerous one. She certainly has a strange way of showing her affection; but it must be confessed, you gave her some provocation; and as the poet says, ‘Hell knows no fury like a woman scorned.’” “That’s true, stranger!” “Her conduct, however, has been too violent to admit of justification. You appear to have been unfortunate in your sweethearts—with each in an opposite sense. One loves you too much, and the other apparently not enough! But how is it you did not see her again—Marian I mean!” “Well, you understand, I wan’t on the best of tarms wi’ old Hick Holt, an’ couldn’t go to his clarin’. Besides after what had happened. I didn’t like to go near Marian anyhow—leastway for a while. I thort it would blow over ’s soon’s she’d find out that E war only jokin’ wi’ the Injun.” “So one would have supposed.” “’Twar nigh two weeks afore I heerd anything o’ her; then I larned that she war gone away. Nobody could tell why or whar, for nobody knew, ’ceptin Hick Holt hisself; an’ he ain’t the sort o’ man to tell saycrets. Lord o’ mercy! I know nowt an’ it’s worse than I expected. I’d sooner heerd she war dead.” A deep-drawn sigh, from the very bottom of his soul, admonished me that the speaker had finished his painful recital. I had no desire to prolong the conversation. I saw that, silence would be more agreeable to my companion; and, as if by a mutual and tacit impulse, we turned our horses’ heads to the path, and proceeded onward across the glade. As we were about entering the timber on the other side, my guide reined up his horse; and sat for a moment gazing upon a particular spot—as if something there had attracted his attention. What? There was no visible object—at least, none that was remarkable—on the ground, or elsewhere! Another sigh, with the speech that followed, explained the singularity of his behaviour, “Thar!” said he, pointing to the entrance of the forest-path—“thar’s the place whar I last looked on Marian!” <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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