of interesting personal appearance, strikingly so. The youth is tall, tersely and elegantly formed, with features cast in a mould that reminds one of the Romagna; the same facial outline, the prominent nose and chin, the eagle eye, that in childhood has glanced across the Teverino, or the Tiber, and a complexion equally suggestive of Italian origin, a tinge of olive in the skin, slightly damasked upon the cheeks, with, above all, a thick chevelure, black as the plumage of a buzzard. While different in mien, this youth is dressed altogether unlike any of the young hunters who regard him from the glade. He is in true hunter costume, slightly partaking of the garb more especially affected by the Indian. His feet are in mocassins, his limbs encased in leggings of green-baize cloth, a calico hunting shirt covers his shoulders; while, instead of cap or hat, he wears the “toque,” or turban, long since adopted by the semi-civilised tribes of the frontier. He is equipped with powder-horn and bullet-pouch, slung crossways under his arm, armed with a long pea-rifle resting negligently over his left shoulder.
His companion has been spoken off as a girl. The designation stands good; but to describe her will require less minuteness of detail. Sixteen in countenance; older to judge by the budding promise of her beauty; clad in a gown of common homespun, copperas-dyed, ill stitched, and loosely adjusted; a skin soft as velvet, and ruddy as rude health can make it; hair to all appearance unacquainted with combs; yet spreading as the sun through a southern window; eyes like stars clipped from the blue canopy of the sky. Such was she who followed, or rather accompanied, the youth in the calico hunting shirt.
A sudden fire flashes into the eyes of Alf Brandon. It is the expression of a spirit not friendly to one of the new comers, which may be easily guessed, for the girl is too young and too fair to have excited hostility in the breast of any one. It is her companion against whom the son of the planter feels some secret resentment.
He shows it more conspicuously on a remark made by Bill Buck.
“That skunk is always sneaking about with old Rook’s gal. Wonder her dad don’t show more sense than let her keep company wi’ a nigger. She ain’t a goslin any more —she ain’t.”
Buck’s observation displays an animus ill concealed. He, too, has not failed to note the hidden beauty of this forest maiden, who is the daughter of an old hunter of rude habits, living in a cabin close by.
But the sentiments of the horse-dealer’s son, less refined, are also less keenly felt. His remarks add fuel to the fire already kindled in the breast of Brandon.
“The nigger thinks entirely too much of himself. I propose, boys, we take the shine out of him,” said Brandon, who makes the malicious challenge.
“Do the nigger good,” chimes in Slaughter.
“But is he a nigger?” asks Spence, to whom the strange youth has been hitherto unknown. “I should have taken him for a white.”
“Three-quarters white – the rest Indian. His mother was a half-bred Choctaw. I’ve often seen the lot at our store.”
It is Grubbs who gives this information.
“Injun or nigger, what’s the difference?” proceeded the brutal Buck. “He’s got starch enough for either; and, as you say, Alf Brandon, let’s take it out of him. All agreed, boys?”
“All! all!”
“What do you say, Judge Randall! You’ve not spoken yet, and as you’re a judge we wait for your decision.”
“Oh, if there’s fun to be had, I’m with you. What do you propose doing with him?”
“Leave that to me,” says Brandon, turning to the quarter-bred, who at this moment has arrived opposite the camp fire. “Hilloa Choc! What’s the hurry? We’ve been having a trial of strength here – who can hang longest by one arm to this branch? Suppose you put in too, and see what you can do?”
“I don’t desire it; besides, I have no time to spare for sport.”
The young hunter, halted for only a moment, is about to move on. The companionship thus offered is evidently uncongenial. He suspects that some mischief is meant. He can read it in the eyes of all six; in their faces flushed with corn-whiskey. Their tone, too, is insulting.
“You’re afraid you’ll get beat,” sneeringly rejoins Brandon. “Though you have Indian blood in you, there ought to be enough white to keep you from showing coward.”
“A coward! I’ll thank you not to repeat that Mr Alfred Brandon.”
“Well, then, show yourself a man, and make the trial. I’ve heard that you boast of having strong arms. I’ll bet that I can hang longer to that branch than you – that any of us can.”
“What will you bet you can?” asks the young hunter, stirred, perhaps, by the hope of employing his strength to a profitable purpose.
“My rifle against yours. Looking at the value of the guns, that is quite two to one.”
“Three to one,” says the son of the store-keeper.
“I don’t admit it,” answers the hunter. “I prefer my piece to yours, with all its silvering upon it. But I accept your challenge, and will take the bet as you have proposed it.”
“Enough. Now, boys, stand by and see fair play. You, Slaughter, you keep time. Here’s my watch.”
The girl is going away; Brandon evidently wishes she should do so. He has some design – some malice prepense, of which he does not desire her to be a witness. Whatever it is he has communicated it to his fellows, all of whom show a like willingness for Lena Rook – such is her name – to take her departure. Their free glances and freer speech produce the desired effect. Her father’s shanty is not far off. She knows the road without any guidance, and moves off along it, not, however, without casting a glance towards her late travelling companion, in which might be detected a slight shadow of apprehension.
She has not failed to notice the bearing of the boy hunters, their insulting tone and attitude towards him of Indian taint, who, for all that, has been the companion of her girlhood’s life – the sharer of her father’s roof, rude and humble as it is. Most of those left in the glade she knows – all of them by name – Buck and Brandon with a slight feeling of aversion.
But she has confidence in Pierre – the only name by which she knows her father’s guest – the name given by the man who some six years before entrusted him to her father’s keeping; she knows that he is neither child nor simpleton, and against any ordinary danger can well guard himself.
By this sweet reflection allaying her fears she flits forward along the forest path like a young fawn, emboldened by the knowledge that the lair of the protecting stag is safe and near.
Story 1-Chapter III.
Hanging by One Hand
“How is it to be?” asks Slaughter, holding the watch as if he were weighing it. “By one hand or both?”
“One hand, of course. That was the challenge.”
“I propose that the other be tied. That will be the best way, and fair for both parties. There will then be no balancing, and it will be a simple test of strength in the arm used for suspension. The right, of course. Let the left be tied down. What say you, boys?”
“There can be no objection to that. It’s equal for both,” remarks Randall.
“I
