Chapter Five
Squatter and Saint
Return we to the squatter’s cabin – this time to enter it. Inside, there is not much to be seen or described. The interior consists of a single room – of which the log-walls are the sides, and the clapboard roof the ceiling. In one corner there is a little partition or screen – the materials composing it being skins or the black bear and fallow deer. It is pleasant to look upon this little chamber: it is the shrine of modesty and virgin innocence. Its presence proves that the squatter is not altogether a savage.
Rude as is the interior of the sheiling, it contains a few relics of bygone, better days – not spent there, but elsewhere. Some books are seen upon a little shelf – the library of Lilian’s mother – and two or three pieces of furniture, that have once been decent, if not stylish. But chattels of this land are scarce in the backwoods – even in the houses of more pretentious people than a squatter; and a log-stool or two, a table of split poplar planks, an iron pot, some pans and pails of tin, a few plates and pannikins of the same material, a gourd “dipper” or drinking-cup, and half-a-dozen common knives, forks, and spoons, constitute the whole “plenishing” of the hut. The skin of a cougar, not long killed, hangs against the wall. Beside it are the pelts of other wild animals – as the grey fox, the racoon, the rufous lynx, musk-rats, and minks. These, draping the roughly-hewn logs, rob them to some extent of their rigidity. By the door is suspended an old saddle, of the fashion known as American– a sort of cross between the high-peaked silla of the Mexicans, and the flat pad-like English saddle. On the adjacent peg hangs a bridle to match – its reins black with age, and its bit reddened with rust. Some light articles of female apparel are seen hanging against the wall, near that sacred precinct where, during the the night-hours, repose the fair daughters of the squatter.
The cabin is a rude dwelling indeed – a rough casket to contain a pair of jewels so sparkling and priceless. Just now, it is occupied by two individuals of a very different character – two men already mentioned – the hunter Hickman Holt, and his visitor Joshua Stebbins, the schoolmaster of Swampville. The personal appearance of the latter has been already half described. It deserves a more detailed delineation. His probable age has been stated – about thirty. His spare figure and ill-omened aspect have been alluded to. Add to this, low stature, a tripe-coloured skin, a beardless face, a shrinking chin, a nose sharp-pointed and peckish, lank black hair falling over the forehead, and hanging down almost low enough to shadow a pair of deep-set weazel-like eyes: give to this combination of features a slightly sinister aspect, and you have the portrait of Joshua Stebbins. It is not easy to tell the cause of this sinister expression: for the features are not irregular; and, but for its bilious colour, the face could scarcely be termed ill-looking. The eyes do not squint; and the thin lips appear making a constant effort to look smiling and saint-like. Perhaps it is this outward affectation of the saintly character – belying, as it evidently does, the spirit within, that produces the unfavourable impression. In earlier youth, the face may have been better favoured; but a career, spent in the exercise of evil passions, has left more than one “blaze” upon it.
It is difficult to reconcile such a career with the demeanour of the man, and especially with his present occupation. But Joshua Stebbins has not always been a schoolmaster; and the pedagogue of a border settlement is not necessarily, expected to be a model of morality. Even if it were so, this lord of the hickory-switch is comparatively a stranger in Swampville; and, perhaps, only the best side of his character has been exhibited to the parents and guardians of the settlement. This is of the saintly order; and, as if to strengthen the illusion, a dress of clerical cut has been assumed, as also a white cravat and black boat-brimmed hat. The coat, waistcoat, and trousers are of broad-cloth – though not of the finest quality. It is just such a costume as might be worn by one of the humbler class of Methodist border Ministers, or by a Catholic priest – a somewhat rarer bird in the backwoods.
Joshua Stebbins is neither one nor the other; although, as will shortly appear, his assumption of the ecclesiastical style is not altogether confined to his dress. Of late he has also affected the clerical calling. The ci-devant attorney’s clerk – whilom the schoolmaster of Swampville – is now an “apostle” of the “Latter-day Saints.” The character is new – the faith itself is not very old – for the events we are relating occurred during the first decade of the Mormon revelation. Even Holt himself has not yet been made aware of the change: as would appear from a certain air of astonishment, with which at first sight he regards the clerical habiliments of his visitor.
It would be difficult to imagine a greater contrast than that presented in the appearance of these two men. Were we to select two parallel types from the animal world, they would be the sly fox and the grizzly bear – the latter represented by the squatter himself. In Hickman Holt we behold a personage of unwonted aspect: a man of gigantic stature, with a beard reaching to the second button of his coat, and a face not to be looked upon without a sensation of terror – a countenance expressive of determined courage, but at the same time of fierceness, untempered by any trace of a softer emotion. A shaggy sand-coloured beard, slightly grizzled; eyebrows like a chevaux de frise of hogs’ bristles; eyes of a greenish-grey, and a broad livid scar across the left cheek – are component parts in producing this aspect; while a red cotton kerchief, wound turban-like around the head, and pulled low down in front, renders its expression more palpable and pronounced.
A loose surtout of thick green blanket-cloth, somewhat faded and worn, adds to the colossal appearance of the man: while a red-flannel shirt serves him also for a vest. His huge limbs are encased in pantaloons of blue Kentucky “jeans;” but these are scarcely visible – as the skirt of his ample coat drapes down so as to cover the tops of a pair of rough horse-skin boots, that reach upwards to his knees. The costume is common enough on the banks of the Mississippi; the colossal form is not rare; but the fierce, and somewhat repulsive countenance – that is more individual.
Is this father of Marian and Lilian? Is it possible from so rude a stem could spring such graceful branches – flowers so fair and lovely? If so, then must the mothers of both have been beautiful beyond common! It is even true, and true that both were beautiful – were for they are gone, and Hickman Holt is twice a widower. Long ago, he buried the half-blood mother of Marian; and at a later period – though still some years ago – her gentle golden-haired successor was carried to an early grave.
The latter event occurred in one of the settlements, nearer to the region of civilised life. There was a murmur of mystery about the second widowhood of Hickman Holt, which only became hushed on his “moving” further west – to the wild forest where we now find him. Here no one knows aught of his past life or history – one only excepted – and that is the man who is to-day his visitor.
Contrasting the two men – regarding the superior size and more formidable aspect of the owner of the cabin, you would expect his guest to make some show of obeisance to him. On the contrary, it is the squatter who exhibits the appearance of complaisance. He has already saluted his visitor with an air of embarrassment, but ill-concealed under the words of welcome with which he received him. Throughout the scene of salutation, and afterwards, the schoolmaster has maintained his characteristic demeanour of half-smiling, half-sneering coolness. Noting the behaviour of these two men to one another, even a careless observer could perceive that the smaller man is the master!
Chapter Six
An Apostolic Effort
The morning needed no fire, but there were embers upon the clay-hearth – some smouldering ends of faggots – over which the breakfast had been cooked. On one side of the fireplace the squatter placed a stool for his visitor; and then another for himself, as if mechanically on the opposite side. A table of rough-hewn planks stood between. On this was a bottle containing maize-corn whiskey – or, “bald face,” as it is more familiarly known in the backwoods – two cracked cups to drink out of; a couple of corn-cob pipes; and some black tobacco. All these preparations had been made beforehand; and confirmed, what had dropped from the lips of Lilian, that the visitor had been expected. Beyond the customary phrases of salutation, not a word was exchanged between the host and guest, until both had seated themselves. The squatter then commenced the conversation.
“Yev hed a long ride, Josh,” said he, leaning towards the table and clutching hold of the bottle: “try a taste o’ this hyur rot-gut– ’taint the daintiest o’ drink to offer a man so genteelly dressed as you air this morning; but thur’s wuss licker in these hyur back’oods, I reckun. Will ye mix? Thur’s water in the jug thar.”
“No water for me,” was the laconic reply. “Yur right ’bout that. Its from old Hatcher’s still – whar they us’ally put the water in afore they give ye the licker. I s’pose they do it to save a fellur the trouble o’ mixing – Ha! ha! ha!” The squatter laughed at his own jest-mot as if he enjoyed it to any great extent, but rather as if desirous of putting his visitor in good-humour. The only evidence of his success was a dry smile, that curled upon the thin lip of the saint, rather sarcastically than otherwise.
There was silence while both drank; and Holt was again under the necessity of beginning the conversation. As already observed, he had noticed the altered style of the schoolmaster’s costume; and it was to this transformation that his next speech alluded. “Why, Josh,” said he, attempting an easy off-hand style of talk, “ye’re bran new, spick span, from head to foot; ye look for all the world jest like one o’ them ere cantin’ critters o’ preechers I often see prowlin’ about Swampville. Durn it, man! what dodge air you up to now. You hain’t got rileegun, I reck’n?”
“I have,” gravely responded Stebbins.
“Hooraw! ha, ha, ha! Wal – what sort o’ thing is’t anyhow?”
“My religion is of the right sort, Brother Holt.”
“Methody?”
“Nothing of the kind.”
“What then? I thort they wur all Methodies in Swampville?”
“They’re all Gentiles in Swampville – worse than infidels themselves.”
“Wal – I know they brag mightily on thur genteelity. I reckon you’re about right thur – them, storekeepers air stuck-up enough for anythin’.”
“No, no; it’s not that I mean. My religion has nothing to do with Swampville. Thank the Lord for his mercy, I’ve been led into a surer way of salvation. I suppose, Brother Holt, you’ve heard of the new Revelation?”
“Heern o’ the new rev’lation. Wal, I don’t know as I hev. What’s the name o’t?”
“The book of Mormon?”
“Oh! Mormons! I’ve hearn o’ them. Hain’t they been a fightin’ a spell up thur in Massouray or Illinoy, whar they built ’em a grandiferous temple? I’ve hearn some talk o’t.”
“At Nauvoo. It is even so, Brother Holt the wicked Gentiles have been persecuting the Saints: just as their fathers were persecuted by the Egyptian Pharaohs.”
“An’ hain’t they killed their head man – Smith he wur called, if I recollex right.”
“Alas, true! Joseph Smith has been made a martyr, and is by this time an angel in heaven. No doubt he is now in glory, at the head of the angelic host.”
“Wal – if the angels are weemen, he’ll hev a good wheen o’ ’em about him, I reck’n. I’ve hearn he wur at the head of a putty consid’able host o’ ’em up thur in Massoury – fifty wives they said he hed! Wur that ere true, Josh?”
“Scandal, Brother Holt – all scandal of the wicked enemies of our faith. They were but wives in the spirit. That the Gentiles can’t comprehend; since their eyes have not been opened by the Revelation.”
“Wal, it ’pears to be a tol’able free sort o’ rileegun anyhow. Kind o’ Turk, aint it?”
“Nothing of the kind. It has nothing in common with the doctrines of Mohammedanism.”
“But whar did you get it, Josh Stebbins? Who gin it to you?”
“You remember the man I brought over here last fall?”
“Sartint I do. Young he wur – Brig Young, I think, you called him.”
“The same.”
“In coorse, I remember him well enough; but I reckon our Marian do a leetle better. He tried to spark the gurl, an’ made fine speeches to her; but she couldn’t bar the sight o’ him for all that. Ha! ha! ha. Don’t ye recollex the trick that ar minx played on him? She unbuckled the girt o’ his saddle, jest as he wur a-goin’ to mount, and down he kim – saddle, bags, and all – cawollup to the airth! ha! ha! Arter he wur gone, I larfed till I wur like to bust.”
“You did wrong, Hickman Holt, to encourage your daughter in her sauciness. Had you known the man —that man, sir, was a prophet!”
“A prophet!”
“Yes – the greatest perhaps the world ever saw – a man in direct communication with the Almighty himself.”
“Lord! ’Twan’t Joe Smith, wur it?”
“No; but one as great as he – one who has inherited his spirit; and who is now the head of all the Saints.”
“That feller at thur head? You ’stonish me, Josh Stebbins.”
“Ah! well you may be astonished. That man has astonished me, Hickman Holt. He has turned me from evil ways, and led me to fear the Lord.” The squatter looked incredulous, but remained silent. “Yes – that same man who was here with me in your humble cabin, is now Chief Priest of the Mormon Church! He has laid his hands on this poor head, and constituted me one of his humble Apostles. Yes, one of the Twelve, intrusted with spreading the true faith of the Saints over all the world.”
“Hooraw for you, Josh Stebbins! You’ll be jest the man for that sort o’ thing; ye’ve got the larnin’ for it, hain’t you?”
“No doubt, Brother Holt, with the help of the Lord, my humble acquirements will be useful; for though He only can open for us poor sinners the kingdom of grace, he suffers such weak instruments, as myself, to point out the narrow path that leads to it. Just as with the Philistines of old, the hearts of the Gentiles are hardened like flint-stones, and refuse to receive the true faith. Unlike the followers of Mohammed, we propagate not by the sword, but by the influence of ratiocination.”
“What?”
“Ratiocination.”
“What mout that be?”
“Reason – reason.”
“Oh! common sense you mean, I s’pose?”
“Exactly so – reasoning that produces conviction; and, I flatter myself, that, being gifted with some little sense and skill, my efforts may be crowned with success.”
“Wal, Josh, ’ithout talkin’ o’ common sense, ye’ve good grist o’ lawyers’ sense – that I know; an’ so, I suppose, ye’ve tuk it into your head to make beginnin’ on me. Aint that why ye’ve come over this mornin’?”
“What?”
“To make a Mormon o’ me.”
Up to this time the conversation had been carried on in a somewhat stiff and irrelevant manner; this more especially on the side of the squatter, who – notwithstanding his endeavours to assume an air of easy nonchalance – was evidently labouring under suspicion and constraint. From the fact of Stebbins having sent a message to forewarn him, of this visit, he knew that the schoolmaster had some business with him of more than usual importance; and it was a view to ascertain the nature of this business, and relieve himself from suspense, that the interrogatory was put. He would have been right glad to have received an answer in the affirmative – since it would have cost him little concern to turn Mormon, or profess to do so, notwithstanding his pretended opposition to the faith. He was half indulging himself in the hope that this might be the errand on which Stebbins had come: as was evinced by a more cheerful expression, on his countenance; but, as the Saint lingered long before making a reply, the shadows of suspicion again darkened over the brow of the squatter; and with a nervous uneasiness, he awaited the answer.
“It’ll be a tough job, Josh,” said he, with an effort to appear unconcerned – “a tough job, mind ye.”
“Well, so I should expect,” answered the apostle drily; “and, just for that reason, I don’t intend to undertake it: though I should like, Brother Holt, to see you gathered into the fold. I know our great High Priest would make much of a man like you. The Saints have many enemies; and need strong arms and stout hearts such as yours, Hickman Holt. The Lord has given to his Prophet the right to defend the true faith – even with carnal weapons, if others fail; and woe be to them who make war on us! Let them dread the Destroying Angels!”
“The Destroying Angels! What sort o’ critters be they?”
“They are the Danites.”
“Wal I’m jest as wise as ever, Josh. Dod rot it, man! don’t be mystiferous. Who air the Danites, I shed like to know?”
“You can only know them by initiation; and you should know them. You’re just the man to be one of them; and I have no doubt you’d be made one, as soon as you joined us.”
The 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, Josh Stebbins! Hev a care what yur about! Ye don’t know what you may drive me to – ”
“But I know what I may lead you to,” interrupted the other with a sneering smile.
“What?” involuntarily inquired Holt.
“The gallows,” laconically answered Stebbins.
“Devils an’ damnation!” This emphatic rejoinder was accompanied with a furious grinding of teeth, but with a certain recoiling – as if the angry spirit of the giant could still be stayed by such a menace.
“It’s no use swearing about it, Holt,” continued the Mormon, after a certain time had passed in silence. “My mind’s made up – the girl must go with me. Say yes or no. If yes, then all’s well – well for your daughter, and well for you too. I shall be out of your way – Salt Lake’s a long distance off – and it’s not likely you’ll ever set eyes on me again. You understand me?”
The saint pronounced these last words with a significant emphasis; and then paused, as if to let them have their full weight. They appeared to produce an effect. On hearing them, a gleam, like a sudden flash of sunlight, passed over the countenance of the squatter. It appeared the outward index of some consolatory thought freshly conceived; and its continuance proved that it was influencing him to take a different view of the Mormon’s proposal. He spoke at length; but no longer in the tone of rage – for his passion seemed to have subsided, as speedily as it had sprung up.
“An’ s’pose I say no?”
“Why, in that case, I shall not start so soon as I had intended. I shall stay in the settlements till I have performed a duty that, for a long time, I have left undone.”
“What duty is’t you mean?”
“One I owe to society; and which I have perhaps sinfully neglected —bring a murderer to justice!”
“Hush! Josh Stebbins – for Heaven’s sake, speak low! You know it isn’t true– but, hush! the gurls are ’thout. Don’t let them hear sech talk!”
“Perhaps,” continued Stebbins, without heeding the interruption, “perhaps that murderer fancies he might escape. He is mistaken if he do. One word from me in Swampville, and the hounds of the law would be upon him; ay, and if he could even get clear of them, he could not escape out of my power. I have told you I am an Apostle of the great Mormon Church; and that man would be cunning indeed who could shun the vengeance of our Destroying Angels. Now, Hickman Holt, which is it to be? yes or no?” The pause was ominous for poor Marian.
The answer decided her doom. It was delivered in a hoarse husky voice: “Yes – yes – she may go!”