apostle paused, as if to note the effect of his words; but the colossal hunter appeared as if he had not heard them. It was not that he did not comprehend their meaning, but rather because he was not heeding what had been said—his mind being occupied with a presentiment of some more unpleasant proposal held in reserve by his visitor. He remained silent, however; leaving it to the latter to proceed to the declaration of his design. The suspicions of the squatter—if directed to anything connected with his family affairs—were well grounded, and soon received confirmation. After a pause, the Mormon continued:
“No, Hickman Holt, it aint with you my business lies to-day—that is, not exactly with you.”
“Who, then?”
“Your daughter!”
Chapter Seven.
The Mormon’s Demand.
A shudder passed through the herculean frame of the hunter—though it was scarcely perceptible, from the effort he made to conceal it. It was noticed for all that; and the emotion that caused it perfectly understood. The keen eye of the ci-devant law clerk was too skilled in reading the human countenance, to be deceived by an effort at impassibility.
“My daughter?” muttered Holt, half interrogatively.
“Your daughter!” echoed the Mormon, with imperturbable coolness.
“But which o’ ’em? Thur’s two.”
“Oh! you know which I mean—Marian, of course.”
“An’ what do ye want wi’ Marian, Josh?”
“Come, Brother Holt? it’s no use your feigning ignorance. I’ve spoken to you of this before: you know well enough what I want with her.”
“Durn me, if I do! I remember what ye sayed afore; but I thort ye wur only jokin’.”
“I was in earnest then, Hickman Holt; and I’m still more in earnest now. I want a wife, and I think Marian would suit me admirably. I suppose you know that the saints have moved off from Illinois, and are now located beyond the Rocky Mountains?”
“I’ve heern somethin’ o’t.”
“Well, I propose going thereto join them; and I must take a wife with me: for no man is welcome who comes there without one.”
“Y-e-s,” drawled the squatter, with a bitter smile, “an’ from what I’ve heern, I reckon he’d be more welkum if he fetched half-a-dozen.”
“Nonsense, Hickman Holt. I wonder a man of your sense would listen to such lies. It’s a scandal that’s been scattered abroad by a set of corrupt priests and Methody preachers, who are jealous of us, because we’re drawing their people. Sheer wicked lies, every word of it!”
“Wal, I don’t know about that. But I know one thing, to a sartinty—you will niver get Marian’s consent.”
“I don’t want Marian’s consent—that don’t signify, so long as I have yours.”
“Myen?”
“Ay, yours; and I must have it. Look here, Hickman Holt! Listen to me! We’re making too long a talk about this business; and I have no time to waste in words. I have made everything ready; and shall leave for the Salt Lake before three more days have passed over my head. The caravan I’m going with is to start from Fort Smith on the Arkansas; and it’ll be prepared by the time I get there, to move over the plains. I’ve bought me a team and a waggon. It’s already loaded and packed; and there’s a corner in it left expressly for your daughter: therefore, she must go.”
The tone of the speaker had suddenly changed, from that of saintly insinuation, to bold open menace. The squatter, notwithstanding his fierce and formidable aspect, did not dare to reply in the same strain. He was evidently cowed, and suffering under some fearful apprehension. “Must go!” he muttered, half involuntarily, as if echoing the other’s words. “Yes, must and shall!”
“I tell ye, Josh Stebbins, she’ll niver consent.”
“And I tell you, Hickman Holt, I don’t want her consent. That I leave you to obtain; and if you can’t get it otherwise, you must force it. Bah! what is it for? A good husband—a good home—plenty of meat, drink, and dress: for don’t you get it into your fancy that the Latter-Day Saints resemble your canting hypocrites of other creeds, who think they please God by their miserable penances. Quite the reverse, I can assure you. We mean to live as God intended men should live—eat, drink, and be merry. Look there!” The speaker exhibited a handful of shining gold pieces. “That’s the way our church provides for its apostles. Your daughter will be a thousand times better off there, than in this wretched hovel. Perhaps she will not mind the change so much as you appear to think. I know many a first-rate girl that would be glad of the chance.”
“I know she won’t give in—far less to be made a Mormon o’. I’ve heern her speak agin ’em.”
“I say again, she must give in. After all, you needn’t tell her I’m a Mormon: she needn’t know anything about that. Let her think I’m only moving out west—to Oregon—where there are plenty of respectable emigrants now going. She’ll not suspect anything in that. Once out at Salt Lake City, she’ll soon get reconciled to Mormon life, I guess.”
The squatter remained silent for some moments—his head hanging forward over his broad breast—his eyes turned inward, as if searching within his bosom for some thought to guide and direct him. In there, no doubt, a terrible struggle was going on—a tumult of mixed emotions. He loved his daughter, and would leave her to her own will; but he feared this saintly suitor, and dared not gainsay him. It must have been some dread secret, or fiendish scheme, that enabled this small insignificant man to sway the will of such a giant!
A considerable time passed, and still the squatter vouchsafed no answer. He was evidently wavering, as to the nature of the response he should make.
Twice or thrice he raised his head, stealthily directing his glance to the countenance of his visitor; but only to read, in the looks of the latter, a fixed and implacable purpose. There was no mercy there.
All at once, a change came over the colossus. A resolution of resistance had arisen within him—as was evinced by his altered attitude and the darkening shadow upon his countenance. The triumphant glances of the pseudo-saint appeared to have provoked him, more than the matter in dispute. Like the buffalo of the plains stung with Indian arrows, or the great mysticetus of the deep goaded by the harpoon of the whaler, all the angry energies of his nature appeared suddenly aroused from their lethargy; and he sprang to his feet, towering erect in the presence of his tormentor. “Damnation!” cried he, striking the floor with his heavy heel, “she won’t do it—she won’t, and she shan’t!”
“Keep cool, Hickman Holt!” rejoined the Mormon, without moving from his seat—“keep cool! I expected this; but it’s all bluster. I tell you she will, and she shall!”
“Hev a care,
