University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

Having seen the tents pitched, the horses and cattle
turned out to graze, and every necessary arrangement
made for spending the night in as much comfort as
circumstances would admit, Mr. Mountford, invited by
the refreshing coolness of the evening, and the beauty of
the scenery, proposed to the ladies a stroll upon the bank
of the stream. They wandered slowly along, following
its meanders for a short time, until its serpentine course
brought them nearly opposite to the point from which
they had set out; and they found themselves on a projecting
point which overlooked the pack-horse camp, and
placed them within a few yards of its noisy inmates,
from whom they were concealed by a clump of underbrush.
The horses had been unharnessed, and were
now grazing at large; the packs of merchandise which
formed their lading, were piled up together, and covered
with canvas. The men had thrown themselves lazily
on the grass, except two or three, who were wrestling
and playing with a degree of hilarity which showed how
little they were affected by the toils of the journey. At
this moment the party was joined by a horseman, who
addressed them with the frankness of an acquaintance,
though he was obviously a stranger to them all. He was
a young man, dressed in a hunting-shirt, carrying a

rifle on his shoulder, and having all the equipments of
a western hunter. His limbs were as stout, and his face
as sun-burnt, as those of the rough men around him,
but neither his appearance nor carriage indicated a person
accustomed to coarse labor. He had the plainness
of speech and manner which showed that his breeding
had not been in the polished circle, mingled with the
freedom and ease of one accustomed to hunting and
martial exercises. He threw himself from his horse,
leaving the bridle dangling on the neck of the animal,
who quietly awaited his pleasure, and seated himself
among the carriers with the air of one who felt that he
was welcome, or who cared but little whether he was
welcome or not. His dress, though coarse and soiled,
was neatly fitted, and adapted to show off his person to
the best advantage, and all his appendages were those
of a young man who had some pride in his appearance.
His features, though not handsome, were lively and
intelligent; indicating a cheerful disposition, a good
opinion of his fellow-men, and an equally good opinion
of himself, arising, no doubt, out of his republican principles,
which would not allow him to place himself below
the level of others. There was a boldness in his eye, a
fluency of speech, and a forwardness in his whole
deportment, which, without approaching to impudence,
gave a dashing air to his conduct, and a freshness to his
conversation. His horse seemed much fatigued, and
from his saddle hung the hinder quarter of a deer recently
killed.

“Gentlemen, good evening,” said he, as he dismounted,
“this has been a powerful hot day.”

“Very sultry,” replied one of the carriers.

“No two ways about that,” said the hunter; “there's
as good a piece of horse-flesh, to his size, as ever
crooked a pastern, and as fast a nag as can be started,
for any distance from a quarter up to four miles; but
this day has pretty nearly used him up.”

“You seem to have been hunting.”

“Why, yes; I have been taking a little tower among
the mountains here. I have just killed a fine deer, and
as I felt sort o' lonesome, I turned into the big road, in
hopes of meeting with a traveller to help me eat it.”

This offer was, of course, well received; the venison
was sent to the fire, and the stranger prepared to
encamp with his new acquaintances.

The quick eye of the hunter was now attracted to
two of the youngest of the company, who were engaged
in a tussle, an exercise common among our western
youth, and far superior to wrestling or boxing, as it
requires greater skill and activity, and is far less savage,
than either of those ancient games. The object of each
party is to throw his adversary to the ground, and to
retain his advantage by holding him down until the
victory shall be decided; and as there are no rules to
regulate the game, each exerts his strength and skill in
any manner which his judgment may dictate, using
force or artifice according to circumstances. The two
persons who now approached each other, seemed each to
be intent on grappling with his adversary in such a manner
as to gain an advantage at the outset. At first, each
eluded the grasp of the other, advancing, retreating,
seizing, or shaking each other off, and each using every

artifice in his power to secure an advantage in the manner
of grappling with his opponent. Then they grasped
at arm's-length, and tried each other's strength by
pushing, pulling, and whirling round, testing the muscular
powers of the arm, and the nimbleness of the foot,
to the utmost. Finally they became closely interlocked,
their bodies in contact, and their limbs twined, wrestling
with all their powers, and after an arduous struggle
came together to the ground, amidst the shouts and
laughter of the spectators. But the contest was not
over; for now a fierce contest ensued, in which each
endeavored to get uppermost, or to hold his antagonist
to the ground. Their muscular strength and flexibility
of limb seemed now almost miraculous. Sometimes the
person who was undermost, fairly rolled his adversary
over, and sometimes he raised himself by main strength,
with his opponent still clinging to him, and renewed the
struggle on foot; and often their bodies were twisted together,
and their limbs interlocked, until every muscle
and sinew were strained, and it was difficult to tell which
was uppermost. At last their breathing grew short, the
violence of the exercise produced exhaustion, and one
of the parties relaxing his efforts, enabled the other to
claim the victory. The tired parties, dripping with
perspiration, ceased the contest in perfect good-humor.

“You must not tussle with me no more, Bill,” said
the victor; “you see you aint no part of a priming to
me.”

“That's very well,” cried the other, eyeing his comrade
with perfect complacency; “I like to see you have
a good opinion of yourself. If I didn't let you win once

in a while to encourage you, I could never get a chance
to have no fun out of you.”

It was now perceived that while the attention of the
company was fixed upon the sport, another stranger had
joined them. He cautiously pushed aside the thick
brushwood behind the merry circle, threw a quick
jealous glance upon the party, and then advancing with
circumspection, halted in the rear, and remained for a
while unnoticed. When the contest which we have described
was over, the eyes of the whole party fell on the
intruder. His appearance was too striking not to rivet
attention. In size he towered above the ordinary stature,
his frame was bony and muscular, his breast broad, his
limbs gigantic. His clothing was uncouth and shabby,
his exterior weatherbeaten and dirty, indicating continual
exposure to the elements, and pointing out this
singular person as one who dwelt far from the habitations
of men, and who mingled not in the courtesies of
civilized life. He was completely armed, with the
exception of a rifle, which seemed to have only been laid
aside for a moment, for he carried the usual powder-horn
and pouch of the backwoodsman. A broad leathern
belt, drawn closely round his waist, supported a large
and a smaller knife, and a tomahawk. But that which
attracted the gaze of all the company into which he had
intruded, was the bold and ferocious countenance of the
new comer, and its strongly marked expression of
villany. His face, which was larger than ordinary,
exhibited the lines of ungovernable passion, but the
complexion announced that the ordinary feelings of the
human breast were extinguished, and instead of the

healthy hue which indicates the social emotions, there
was a livid, unnatural redness, resembling that of a
dried and lifeless skin. The eye was fearless and steady,
but it was also artful and audacious, glaring upon the
beholder with an unpleasant fixedness and brilliancy,
like that of a ravenous animal gloating upon its prey,
and concentrating all its malignity into one fearful
glance. He wore no covering on his head, and the
natural protection of thick coarse hair, of a fiery redness,
uncombed and matted, gave evidence of long
exposure to the rudest visitations of the sunbeam and
the tempest. He seemed some desperate outlaw, an unnatural
enemy of his species, destitute of the nobler sympathies
of human nature, and prepared at all points for
assault or defence, who in some freak of daring insolence
had intruded himself into the society of men, to brave
their resentment, or to try the effect which his presence
might occasion.

Although there was something peculiarly suspicious
and disagreeable in the appearance of this stranger, there
was nothing to excite alarm, or to call for the expression
of any disapprobation. He was armed like other men
of that frontier region, and the road was a public high-way,
frequented by people of various character and
condition. Still there was a shrinking, and a silent
interchange of glances among the carriers, on discovering
his silent and almost mysterious intrusion; one
whispered, “what does that fellow want?” and another
muttered, “keep a red eye out, boys—that chap is not
too good to steal.” The young hunter who had just
joined them, was not of the kind of mettle to sit still on

such an occasion. He jumped up, and addressing their
visitor in a blithe, frank tone, said, “Good evening,
stranger.”

The person addressed turned his eye deliberately towards
the speaker, and returned his salutation with a
nod, without opening his lips.

“Travelling, stranger?”

“Yes,” replied the other. The sound of his voice,
even in uttering this monosyllable, was cold and repulsive,
and any other than a resolute inquirer would have
pursued the dialogue no further. But the young Kentuckian
was not so easily repulsed.

“Which way? if it's a fair question,” continued he.

“West,” was the laconic reply.

“That fellow's mouth goes off like a gun with a rusty
lock,” said the hunter aside; then addressing him again,
“To Kentucky, eh? well, that's right—there's plenty
of room there—game enough, and a powerful chance of
good living. No two ways about that. Come from old
Virginia, I suppose?”

The stranger, instead of answering this question,
turned his head in another direction, as if he had not
heard it, stepped a few paces off, as if about to retire,
and then again halted and faced the party.

“No, I'll be d'rot if ever that chap came out of old
Virginny,” muttered the young man aside, “they don't
raise such humans in the old dominion, no how. I'll
see what he is made of, however.”

Then winking at his companions, he approached the
stranger, and taking a pen-knife from his pocket, presented
it to him with a civil bow. The stranger was not

to be taken by surprise. He received the knife, looked
at it and at the donor, inquiringly, as if he would have
said, “what means this?” and then coolly put it in his
pocket, without saying a word. His tormentor did not
leave him in doubt.

“It is a rule in our country,” said he, “when a man
is remarkably ugly, to make him a present of a knife.
Keep that, if you please, stranger, till you meet with
a homelier human than yourself, and then give it to
him.”

This practical joke would, in some countries, have
been considered as a quiz; in Kentucky it was a kind of
challenge, which the receiver might have honorably
avoided by joining in the laugh, or which, on the other
hand, gave him ample cause to crack his heels together,
and assert, that he was not only the handsomest, but
the best man in company; which assertion, if concluded,
as the lawyers say, with a verification, would have been
tantamount to calling for “pistols for two.” The stranger
did neither, but pocketed the knife and the affront,
and quietly turned to walk away.

To a brave man nothing causes more painful regret
than to have given an unprovoked affront to one who is
unable or unwilling to resent it. Had the stranger
shown the slightest inclination to take up the gauntlet
which had been thrown to him, the young Kentuckian,
who viewed him with intuitive dislike, would probably
have challenged him to instant combat, and have engaged
him with the ferocity of a hungry brute; but no sooner
did the latter discover that the person he addressed
neither relished his joke, nor was disposed to resent it,

than his generous nature prompted him to make instant
atonement.

“Look here, stranger,” he exclaimed, drawing a flask
of spirits from his pocket, and offering it; “you are a
droll sort of a white man; you won't talk, nor laugh,
nor quarrel—will you drink? Take a drop, and let us
be friends.”

This appeal was not in vain. The uncouth man of
the woods took the flask, raised it silently to his lips,
and drained the whole of its contents, amounting to
nearly a pint, without stopping to breathe; then placing
one hand on the shoulder of the young man, and leaning
towards him, he said in a low voice, “we shall meet
again,” at the same time grasping the handle of his long
knife, and casting a look of defiance at the whole party.
Whether he intended to strike is doubtful, for the young
man, stepping back, stood on his guard, looking at his
adversary with an undaunted eye, while the carriers
started to their feet, prepared to defend him. In
another moment the stranger had turned, and dashing
into the thicket, disappeared.

“Well, if that ain't a droll chicken, I'm mistaken,”
exclaimed the Kentuckian. “I say, gentlemen, the
way that fellow takes his brandy is curious. He is not
of the right breed of dogs, no how. There's no two
ways about that.”

Before any further remark could be made, the attention
of the party was arrested by an exclamation of
terror from a female voice; the cause of which shall be
explained in the next chapter.