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<h3>Chapter Thirty Three.</h3> <h4>Another Duel determined on.</h4> Into my saddle—off out of the clearing—away through the dripping forest—on through the sweltering swamp, I hurried. Up the creek was my route—my destination, the dwelling of the hunter, Wingrove. Surely, in such weather, I should find him at home? It was natural I should seek the young backwoodsman. In such an emergency, I might count with certainty on having his advice and assistance. True, I anticipated no great benefit from either: for what could either avail me? The young man was helpless as myself; and had similarly suffered. This would secure me his sympathy; but what more could he give? After all, I did not reckon it as nothing. The condolence of a friend or fellow-sufferer may soothe, though it cannot cure; and for such a solace the heart intuitively seeks. Confidence and sympathy are consolatory virtues—even penance has its purpose. I longed, therefore, for a friend—one to whom I could confide my secret, and unbosom my sorrow; and I sought that friend in the young backwoodsman. I had a claim upon him: he had made me the confidant of his care—the recipient of his heart confessed. Little dreamed I at the time, I should so soon be calling upon him for a reciprocity of the kindness. Fortune so far favoured me—I found him at home. My arrival scarcely roused him from a dejection that, I could perceive, was habitual to him. I knew its cause; and could see that he was struggling against it—lest it should hinder him from the fulfilment of his duties as a host. It did not. There was something truly noble in this conquest of courtesy over the heart heavily laden—charged and engrossed with selfish care. Not without admiration, did I observe the conflict. I hesitated not to confide my secret to such a man: I felt convinced that under the buckskin coat beat the heart of a gentleman. I told him the whole story of my love—beginning with the hour in which I had left him. The tale aroused him from his apathy—more especially the episode, which related to my first meeting with Lilian, and the encounter that followed. As a hunter, this last would have secured his attention; but it was not altogether that. The scene touched a chord in unison with his own memories; for by some such incident had he first won the favour of Marian. As I approached the finale of the duel scene—that point where the stranger had appeared upon the stage—I could perceive the interest of my listener culminating to a pitch of excitement; and, before I had pronounced ten words in description of the clerical visitor, the young hunter sprang to his feet, exclaiming as he did so—“Josh Stebbins!” “Yes; it was he—I know it myself.” I continued the narrative; but I saw I was no longer listened to with attention. Wingrove was on his feet, and pacing the floor with nervous irregular strides. Every now and then, I saw him glance towards his rifle—that rested above the fireplace; while the angry flash of his eyes betokened that he was meditating some serious design. As soon as I had described the winding up of the duel, and what followed—including my departure from Swampville—I was again interrupted by the young hunter—this time not by his speech but by an action equally significant. Hastily approaching the fireplace, he lifted his rifle from the cleets; and, dropping the piece upon its butt, commenced loading it! It was not the movement itself, so much as the time and manner, that arrested my attention; and these declared the object of the act. Neither for squirrel nor coon—deer, bear, nor panther—was that rifle being loaded! “Where are you going?” I inquired, seeing that he had taken down his coon-skin cap, and slung on his pouch and powder-horn. “Only a bit down the crik. You’ll excuse me, stranger, for leavin’ o’ ye; but I’ll be back in the twinklin’ o’ an eye. Thar’s a bit o’ dinner for ye, if you can eat cold deer-meat; an’ you’ll find somethin’ in the old bottle thar. I won’t be gone more’n a hour. I reckon I won’t.” The emphasis expressed a certain indecision, which I observed without being able to interpret. I had my conjectures however. “Can I not go with you?” I asked in hopes of drawing him to declare his design. “The weather has cleared up; and I should prefer riding out, to staying here alone. If it is not some business of a private nature—” “Thar’s nothin’ particularly private about it, stranger; but it’s a bizness I don’t want you to be mixed up in. I guess ye’ve got yur own troubles now; ’ithout takin’ share o’ myen.” “If it is not rude, may I ask the business on which you’re going?” “Welcome to know it, stranger. I’m a-goin’ to kill Josh Stebbins!” “Kill Josh Stebbins?” “Eyther that, or he shall kill me.” “Oh! nonsense!” I exclaimed, surprised less at the intention—which I had already half divined—than at the cool determined tone in which it was declared. “I’ve said it, stranger! I’ve sworn it over an’ over, an’ it shell be done. ’Taint no new notion I’ve tuk. I’d detarmined on makin’ him fight long ago: for I’d an old score to settle wi’ him, afore that ’un you know o’; but I niver ked got the skunk to stan’ up. He allers tuk care to keep out o’ my way. Now I’ve made up my mind he don’t dodge me any longer; an’, by the Etarnal! if that black-hearted snake’s to be foun’ in the settlement—” “He is not to be found in the settlement.” “Not to be foun’ in the settlement!” echoed the hunter, in a tone that betrayed both surprise and vexation—“not to be foun’ in the settlement? Surely you ain’t in earnest, stranger? You seed him the day afore yesterday!” “True—but I have reason to think he is gone.” “God forbid! But you ain’t sure o’ it? What makes you think he air gone?” “Too sure of it—it was that knowledge that brought me in such haste to your cabin.” I detailed the events of the morning, which Wingrove had not yet heard; my brief interview with the Indian maiden—her figurative prophecy that had proved but two truthful. I described the deserted dwelling; and at last read to him the letter of Lilian—read it from beginning to end. He listened with attention, though chafing at the delay. Once or twice only did he interrupt me, with the simple expression—“Poor little Lil!” “Poor little Lil!” repeated he when I had finished. “She too gone wi’ him!—just as Marian went six months ago! “No—no!” he exclaimed correcting himself, in a voice that proclaimed the agony of his thoughts. “No! it war different—altogether different: Marian went willin’ly.” “How know you that?” I said, with a half-conceived hope of consoling him. “Know it? O stranger! I’m sure o’ it; Su-wa-nee sayed so.” “That signifies nothing. It is not the truer of her having said so. A jealous and spiteful rival. Perhaps the very contrary is the truth? Perhaps Marian was forced to marry this, man? Her father may have influenced her: and it is not at all unlikely, since he appears to be himself under some singular influence—as if in dread of his saintly son-in-law. I noticed some circumstances that would lead one to this conclusion.” “Thank ye, stranger, for them words!” cried the young hunter, rushing forward; and grasping me eagerly by the hand. “It’s the first bit o’ comfort I’ve had since Marian war tuk away! I’ve heerd myself that Holt war afeerd o’ Stebbins; an’ maybe that snake in the grass had a coil about him somehow. I confess ye, it often puzzled me, Marian’s takin’ it so to heart, an’ all about a bit o’ a kiss—which I wudn’t a tuk, if the Indian hadn’t poked her lips clost up to myen. Lord o’ mercy! I’d gie all I’ve got in the world, to think it war true as you’ve sayed.” “I have very little doubt of its being true. I have now seen your rival; and I think it altogether improbable she would, of her own free will, have preferred him to you.” “Thank ye, stranger! it’s kind in you to say so. She’s now married an’ gone: but if I thort thar had been force used, I’d ’a done long ago what I mean to do now.” “What is that?” I asked, struck by the emphatic energy with which the last words were spoken. “Foller him, if it be to the furrest eend o’ the world! Yes, stranger! I mean it. I’ll go arter him, an’ track him out. I’ll find him in the bottom o’ a Californey gold mine, or wherever he may try to hide hisself; an’, by the etarnal! I’ll wipe out the score—both the old un and the new un—in the skunk’s blood, or I’ll never set fut agin in the state o’ Tennessee. I’ve made up my mind to it.” “You are determined to follow him?” “Firmly detarmined!” “Enough! Our roads lie together!” <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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