The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness. Майн Рид
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farther that night, I was desirous of obtaining some information, about the whereabout of my new estate, with such other facts in relation to it, as might be collected in Swampville. The landlord would be the most likely person to give me the desired intelligence. This distinguished individual I encountered soon after in the verandah—seated upon a raw-hide rocking-chair, with his feet elevated some six inches above the level of his nose, and resting across the balustrade of the railing—beyond which his huge horse-skin boots protruded a full half yard into the street. But that I had been already made aware of the fact, I should have had some difficulty in reconciling the portentous title of “colonel” with the exceedingly unmilitary-looking personage before me—a tall lopsided tobacco-chewer, who, at short intervals, of about half a minute each, projected the juice in copious squirts into the street, sending it clean over the toes of his boots!
When I first set eyes upon the colonel, he was in the centre of a circle of tooth-pickers, who had just issued from the supper-room. These were falling off one by one; and, noticing their defection, I waited for an opportunity to speak to the colonel alone. This, after a short time, offered itself.
The dignified gentleman took not the slightest notice of me as I approached; nor until I had got so near, as to leave no doubt upon his mind that a conversation was intended. Then, edging slightly round, and drawing in the boots, he made a half-face towards me—still, however, keeping fast to his chair.
“The army, sir, I prezoom?” interrogatively began Mr. Kipp.
“No,” answered I, imitating his laconism of speech. “No!”
“I have been in the service. I have just left it.”
“Oh—ah! From Mexico, then, I prezoom?”
“Yes.”
“Business in Swampville?”
“Why, yes, Mr. Kipp.”
“I am usooally called kurnel here,” interrupted the backwoods militario, with a bland smile, as if half deprecating the title, and that it was forced upon him.
“Of course,” continued he, “you, sir, bein’ a strenger—”
“I beg your pardon, Colonel Kipp: I am a stranger to your city, and of course—”
“Don’t signify a dump, sir,” interrupted he, rather good-humouredly, in return for the show of deference I had made, as also, perhaps for my politeness in having styled Swampville a city. “Business in Swampville, you say?”
“Yes,” I replied; and, seeing it upon his lips to inquire the nature of my business—which I did not wish to make known just then—I forestalled him by the question: “Do you chance to know such a place as Holt’s Clearing?”
“Chance to know such a place as Holt’s Clearin’?”
“Yes; Holt’s Clearing.”
“Wal, there air such a place.”
“Is it distant?”
“If you mean Hick Holt’s Clearin’, it’s a leetle better’n six miles from here. He squats on Mud Crik.”
“There’s a squatter upon it, then?”
“On Holt’s Clearin’? Wal, I shed rayther say there air a squatter on’t, an’ no mistake.”
“His name is Holt is it not?”
“That same individooal.”
“Do you think I could procure a guide in Swampville—some one who could show me the way to Holt’s Clearing?”
“Do I think so? Possible you might. D’ye see that ar case in the coon-cap?” The speaker looked, rather than pointed, to the young fellow of the buckskin shirt; who, outside the verandah, was now standing by the side of a very sorry-looking steed. I replied in the affirmative. “Wal, I reckon he kin show you the way to Holt’s Clearin’. He’s another o’ them Mud Crik squatters. He’s just catchin’ up his critter to go that way.”
This I hailed as a fortunate circumstance. If the young hunter lived near the clearing I was in search of, perhaps he could give me all the information I required; and his frank open countenance led me to believe he would not withhold it. It occurred to me, therefore, to make a slight change in my programme. It was yet early—for supper in the backwoods is what is elsewhere known as “tea.” The sun was still an hour or so above the horizon. My horse had made but a light journey; and nine miles more would be nothing to him. All at once, then, I altered my intention of sleeping at the hotel; and determined, if the young hunter would accept me as a travelling companion, to proceed along with him to Mud Creek. Whether I should find a bed there, never entered into my calculation. I had my great-sleeved cloak strapped upon the cantle of my saddle; and with that for a covering, and the saddle itself for a pillow, I had made shift on many a night, more tempestuous than that promised to be.
I was about turning away to speak to the young man, when I was recalled by an exclamation from the landlord:—“I guess,” said he, in a half-bantering way, “you hain’t told me your business yet?”
“No,” I answered deferentially, “I have not.”
“What on airth’s takin’ you to Holt’s Clearin’?”
“That, Mr. Kipp—I beg pardon—Colonel Kipp—is a private matter.”
“Private and particular, eh?”
“Very.”
“Oh, then, I guess, you’d better keep it to yourself.”
“That is precisely my intention,” I rejoined, turning on my heel, and stepping out of the verandah.
The young hunter was just buckling the girth of his saddle. As I approached him, I saw that he was smiling. He had overheard the concluding part of the conversation; and looked as if pleased at the way in which I had bantered the “colonel,” who, as I afterwards learnt from him, was the grand swaggerer of Swampville. A word was sufficient. He at once acceded to my request, frankly, if not in the most elegant phraseology, “I’ll be pleased to show ye the way to Holt’s Clarin’. My own road goes jest that way, till within a squ’ll’s jump o’t.”
“Thank you: I shall not keep you waiting.”
I re-entered the hotel to pay for my entertainment, and give orders for the saddling of my horse. It was evident that I had offended the landlord by my brusque behaviour. I ascertained this by the amount of my bill, as well as by the fact of being permitted to saddle for myself. Even the naked “nigger,” did not make his appearance at the stable. Not much cared I. I had drawn the girth too often, to be disconcerted by such petty annoyance; and, in five minutes after, I was in the saddle and ready for the road. Having joined my companion in the street, we rode off from the inhospitable caravanserai of the Jackson Hotel—leaving its warlike landlord to chew his tobacco, and such reflections as my remarks had given rise to.
Chapter Thirteen.
Through the Forest.
As we passed up the street, I was conscious of being the subject of Swampville speculation. Staring faces at the windows, and gaping groups around the doors, proved by their looks and gestures, that I was regarded as a rare spectacle. It could scarcely be my companion who was the object of this universal curiosity. A buckskin hunting-shirt was an everyday sight in Swampville—not so a well-mounted military man, armed, uniformed, and equipped. No doubt, my splendid Arab, caracoling as if he had not been out of the stable for a week, came in for a large share of the admiration.
We were soon beyond its reach. Five minutes sufficed