21. CHAPTER XXI.
PUCCOON AND THE MAN OF THE SWAMP.
It was now nearly ten o'clock, and St. Leger felt the propriety of
banishing his possessing thoughts in reference to the unknown
woman, and making his way, if possible, without too great a detour,
back to the friendly roof of Huntsdon, where Harley was no doubt
awaiting him and wondering at his absence.
He followed the road which he was pursuing for the most excellent
of all reasons—there was no other that had debouched into it
since he left the camp of the vagabonds; and yet he felt tolerably
certain that he was wandering further and further out of his way.
He came to this conclusion from the change in the character of the
country through which he was passing. He had left the open fields
and oak forest of the region along the bank of the James, and was
evidently entering the swamp-country. The huge pedestals of the
black-gum, surmounted by the slender trunks and dark berries,
were seen; with these were mingled the glossy-green, magnolia-like
leaves of the laurel; and the cypresses rose here and there
from the heavy grass, like giants, lifting their tall forms into the
night.
All at once he heard the low, soughing sound of a stream, lost in
the darkness on his right, and something in the appearance of the
road before him was familiar. At the same moment a light
twinkled from a wooded hollow, and he stopped, looked round,
and muttered,
“I know this spot, or think I know it.”
He had checked his horse, whose footfalls had made no noise on
the sandy road, and stood for some minutes silent in the shadow
of a large laurel. He was struggling to make out his whereabouts.
The moonlight was but a slight guide, and only appeared at intervals.
Whilst trying to recognize the locality, he saw a shadow fall
upon the road in front; the moon came out suddenly, and a man
passed across the road and disappeared.
He had come and gone like a shadow; and yet St. Leger made
out these particulars—he was of medium height, sinewy and powerful,
carried a short carbine, was clad in fur, and had the stealthy
tread and crouching neck of the huntsman or of the criminal—of
the man in pursuit of wild animals or of the hunted outlaw.
St. Leger was still looking after him, and speculating upon the
subject of his presence, when a shot was heard from the direction
of the light in the hollow; the hoarse bay of a hound followed, and
this was succeeded by the abrupt appearance of a man, who burst
through the thicket, and stood suddenly in the road, grasping a
long rifle, which was still smoking.
St. Leger recognized Puccoon.
“What's the matter?” he said. “You fired.”
Puccoon started and turned round. At a glance he recognized
St. Leger.
“What is the matter, friend?” replied the young man. “You
are not hunting—I see that.”
Puccoon bent his head and listened. The bay of the hound was
receding.
“The matter is, squire,” he said, in a gloomy voice, “this man
will be my death.”
“What man?”
“The man o' the swamp.”
Puccoon's eyes were distended. St. Leger might have smiled at
this agitation, regarding the whole matter as a mere delusion, but
he had himself seen the foe of Puccoon—the man of the carbine—
and told the trapper now of the encounter.
“I knowed it, squire! I knowed it. He's been a ha'ntin' me
this month past worse than ever, and I can't sleep in my bed for
thinkin' and dreamin' of him. That's what's the matter. I'm
gittin' sick. I'm wastin' away. He's a hangin' round my cabin
every night, and I hearn of him near by in the day when I'm off
tendin' to my traps.”
“Who is this man, Puccoon?”
The trapper shook his head.
“All I know,” he said, gloomily, “is, he's the man o' the swamp.”
“And he came again to-night?”
“Yes, he did, squire. I was settin' mendin' my nets, when I felt
him in the bresh. Well, I called Otter—that's my hound. Then I
put my hand on his head, and made him lay down, and I waited.
It wasn't long before I heard him. He was in the bresh. He was
lookin' at me. I catched up my rifle, and set Otter on, and fired
at the noise, but I didn't hit nothin'. He's gone.”
Puccoon spoke in a low tone. The secret prowler had evidently
come to be regarded by the trapper as a supernatural being. He
looked upon him with superstitious awe.
“Listen, squire,” he whispered, “I fired at him this time with a
silver bullet. I beat it round myself. I never hit him. He can't
be hit!”
St. Leger saw that it was utterly impossible to argue with Puccoon
on the subject of the man of the swamp, in whom he fully
believed now, himself, and abandoned the attempt, advising the
trapper to put out his fire and all lights, bar up, and sleep.
“I will, squire,” said Puccoon; but I'll wake.”
“Wake!”
“He'll be back here to-night.”
St. Leger combated this as improbable, and then explained his
presence, at which Puccoon evidently wondered. He would get
back to Huntsdon, he said; and bidding the trapper good night,
followed the bye road, with which he was acquainted.
Puccoon had gone back, moodily shaking his head, toward his
cabin.
An hour afterward St. Leger saw the great oaks of the Huntsdon
grounds defined against the sky.
He entered the gate, went along quietly beneath the broad
boughs, heavy with brown leaves, and drew near the house.
