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<h3>Chapter Twenty Two.</h3> <h4>A Rough Reception.</h4> For fashion’s sake, I was about to utter the usual formula, “Mr Holt, I presume?” but the opportunity was not allowed me. No sooner had the squatter appeared in his doorway, than he followed up his blasphemous interrogatory with a series of others, couched in language equally rude. “What’s all this muss about? Durn yur stinkin’ imperence, who air ye? an’ what air ye arter?” “I wish to see Mr Holt,” I replied, struggling hard to keep my temper. “Ye wish to see Mister Holt? Thur’s no Mister Holt ’bout hyur.” “No?” “No! damnation, no! Didn’t ye hear me!” “Do I understand you to say, that Hickman Holt does not live here?” “You understan’ me to say no sich thing. Eft’s Hick Holt ye mean, he diz live hyur.” “Hick Holt—yes that is the name.” “Wall what o’t, ef’t is?” “I wish to see him.” “Lookee hyur, stranger!” and the words were accompanied by a significant look; “ef yur the shariff, Hick Holt ain’t at home—ye understand me? he ain’t at home.” The last phrase was rendered more emphatic, by the speaker, as he uttered it, raising the flap of his blanket-coat, and exhibiting a huge bowie-knife stuck through the waistband of his trousers. I understood the hint perfectly. “I am not the sheriff,” I answered in an assuring tone. I was in hopes of gaining favour by the declaration: for I had already fancied that my bizarre reception might be owing to some error of this kind. “I am not the sheriff,” I repeated, impressively. “Yur not the shariff? One o’ his constables, then, I s’pose?” “Neither one nor other,” I replied, pocketing the affront. “An’ who air ye, anyhow—wi’ yur dam glitterin’ buttons, an’ yur waist drawd in, like a skewered skunk?” This was intolerable; but remembering the advice of my Nashville friend—with some additional counsel I had received over-night—I strove hard to keep down my rising choler. “My name,” said I— “Durn yur name!” exclaimed the giant, interrupting me; “I don’t care a dog-gone for yur name: tell me yur bizness—that’s what I wanter know.” “I have already told you my business: I wish to see Mr Holt—Hick Holt, if you like.” “To see Hick Holt? Wal, ef that’s all yur bizness, you’ve seed him; an’ now ye kin go.” This was rather a literal interpretation of my demand; but, without permitting myself to be nonplussed by it, or paying any heed to the abrupt words of dismissal, I replied, half interrogatively: “You, then, are he? You are Hick Holt, I suppose?” “Who said I ain’t—durn your imperence? Now, then, what d’ye want wi’ me?” The filthy language, the insulting tone in which it was uttered, the bullying manner of the man—evidently relying upon his giant strength, and formidable aspect—were rapidly producing their effect upon me; but in a manner quite contrary to that anticipated by Master Holt. It was no doubt his design to awe me; but he little knew the man he had to deal with. Whether it might be called courage or not, I was just as reckless of life as he. I had exposed my person too often, both in single combat and on the battle-field, to be cowed by a bully—such as I fancied this fellow to be—and the spirit of resistance was fast rising within me. His dictatorial style was unendurable; and discarding all further prudential considerations, I resolved to submit to it no longer. I did not give way to idle recrimination. Perhaps, thought I, a firm tone may suit my purpose better; and, in my reply, I adopted it. Before I could answer his question, however, he had repeated it in a still more peevish and impatient manner—with an additional epithet of insult. “Wal, Mister Jaybird,” said he, “be quick ’bout it! What d’ye want wi’ me?” “In the first place Mr Hickman Holt, I want civil treatment from you; and secondly—” I was not permitted to finish my speech. I was interrupted by an exclamation—a horrid oath—that came fiercely hissing from the lips of the squatter. “Damnation!” cried he; “you be damned! Civil treetmint i’deed! You’re a putty fellur to talk o’ civil treetmint, arter jumpin’ yur hoss over a man’s fence, an’ ridin’ slap-jam inter his door, ’ithout bein’ asked! Let me tell yer, Mister Gilt Buttons, I don’t ’low any man—white, black, or Injun—to enter my clarin’ ’ithout fust knowin’ his reezun. Ye hear that, d’ye?” “Your clearing! Are you sure it is yours?” The squatter turned red upon the instant. Rage may have been the passion that brought the colour to his cheeks; but I could perceive that my words had produced another emotion in his mind, which added to the hideousness of the cast at that moment given to his features. “Not my clarin’!” he thundered, with the embellishment of another imprecation—“not my clarin’! Shew me the man, who says it’s not!—shew’m to me! By the Almighty Etarnal he won’t say’t twice.” “Have you purchased it?” “Neer a mind for that, mister; I’ve made it: that’s my style o’ purchase, an’, by God! it’ll stan’ good, I reck’n. Consarn yur skin! what hev you got to do wi’t anyhow?” “This,” I replied, still struggling to keep calm, at the same time taking the title-deeds from my saddle-bags—“this only, Mr Holt. That your house stands upon Section Number 9; that I have bought that section from the United States government; and must therefore demand of you, either to use your pre-emption, right, or deliver the land over to me. Here is the government grant—you may examine it, if you feel so inclined.” An angry oath was the response, or rather a volley of oaths. “I thort that wur yur bisness,” continued the swearer. “I thort so; but jest this time you’ve kim upon a fool’s errand. Durn the government grant! durn your pre-emption right! an’ durn yur title-papers too! I don’t valley them more’n them thur corn-shucks—I don’t. I’ve got my pre-emption dokyment inside hyur. I’ll jest shew ye that, mister; an’ see how ye’ll like it.” The speaker turned back into his cabin, and for a moment I lost sight of him. “Pre-emption document!” he said. Was it possible he had purchased the place, and was gone to fetch his title-deeds? If so— My reflection was cut short. In another moment he re-appeared in the doorway; not with any papers in his hand—but, instead, a long rifle, that with its butt resting on the door-stoop, stood almost as high as himself? “Now, Mister Turn-me-out?” said he, speaking in a satirical triumphant tone, and raising the piece in front of him, “thur’s my title—my pre-emption right’s the right o’ the rifle. It’s clur enuf: ye’ll acknowledge that, won’t ye?” “No,” I replied in a firm voice. “Ye won’t? The hell, ye won’t? Look hyur, stranger! I’m in airnest. Look in my eye, an’ see if I ain’t! I gi’ ye warnin’ then, that ef ye’re not out o’ this clarin’ in six jumps o’ a squ’ll, you’ll niver go out o’ it a livin’ man. You see that ere stump? Its shadder’s jest a creepin’ up to the house: the minnit that shadder touches the wall, I’ll shoot you down, as sure’s my name’s Hick Holt. Mind, I’ve gin ye warnin’!” “And I give you warning, Mr Holt, that I am prepared to defend myself; and if you miss—” “Miss!” ejaculated he with a contemptuous toss of the head—“miss, ye fool! thur’s no fear o’ that.” “If you miss,” continued I, without heeding the interruption, “I shall show you no mercy. If you are going to take the cowardly advantage of having the the first shot, I have my advantage too. In self-defence, I shall be justified in killing you; and if you fire at me, I shall certainly do so. Be warned! I never spare a coward.” “Coward!” exclaimed the colossus, with an imprecation that was horrible to hear. “An’ how ef I don’t miss?” continued he, apparently calming his rage, and speaking with a significant sneer—intended to awe me, by insinuating the certainty of his aim. “How ef I don’t miss, Mister Popgun?” “You may, for all that. Don’t be too sure of hitting—I’ve been shot at before now.” “You’ll niver be shot at arter now, ’ceptin’ ye leave this clarin’. One crack from my gun’ll be enuf for ye, I reck’n.” “I’ll take my chance. If it should go against me, you won’t gain by it. Remember, my good man, it’s not a duel we’re fighting! You have chosen to attack me; and if I should fall in the affair, I’ve faith enough in the law to believe it will avenge me.” I fancied that my speech produced some effect upon the fellow; and, seeing that he remained silent, I followed up it by words of similar import: “If it be my fate to fall, I leave behind me friends who will inquire into my death. Trust me, they will do so! If I kill you, it will be but justifiable homicide, and will be so adjudged; while your killing me will be regarded in a different light: it will be pronounced murder!” I gave full emphasis to the last word. On hearing it my antagonist showed signs of emotion. I fancied I saw him tremble, and turn slightly pale! With an unsteady voice he replied: “Murder? No, no; I’ve gin ye warnin’ to go. Ye’ve time enuf yet to save yerself. Git out o’ the clarin’, an’ thur’ll be no harm done ye!” “I shall not go out of the clearing, until you’ve acknowledged my claim.” “Then you’ll niver go out o’ it alive—I swar by God! niver!” “You are determined, then, to be my murderer?” I again pronounced the word in the most emphatic tone. I saw that it affected him in some singular way; whether through a fear of consequences; or that there still lingered in his heart some spark of humanity; or, perhaps—but least possible of all he was beginning to be ashamed of his foul play. By which of of these three motives, or by what other inspired, I could not guess; but he seemed to cower under the imputation. “Murderer!” echoed he, after a moment of apparent reflection. “No, no; it’s bad enuf to hev the blame o’ that, ’ithout bein’ guilty o’t. I ain’t agwine to murder ye; but I ain’t agwine neyther to let ye go. I mout a did so a minnit agone, but ye’ve lost yur chance. Ye’ve called me a coward; an’ by the Etarnal! no man ’ll say that word o’ Hick Holt, an’ live to boast o’t. No, mister! ye’ve got to die; an’ ye may get yurself ready for’t, ’s soon’s ye like. Coward indeed!” “I repeat it—your act is cowardly.” “What act?” “Your unprovoked attack upon me—especially since it gives you the first shot. What if I were to shoot you down now? With the pistol you see in my holster here, I could send six bullets through your body, before you could bring your rifle to your shoulder. What would you call that? Sheer cowardice, would it not be; and murder too?” <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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