This was said in a half-sneering, half-anxious tone, as if the speaker hardly knew how the listener might take it. He was short, thick-set, and powerful in make, but every thing in him was ungainly. He wore a dog-skin cap close over his low forehead, which formed a perfect pent-house over little round gray goggle eyes, that were forever moving restlessly about, as if afraid each instant of Indians, or constables, or something terrible—he could hardly, perhaps, say what. He wore a thick beard over chin, face and upper lip, so that little could be detected of expression, save where his thin lips, closed over his projecting teeth, gave a savage and brutal expression which never failed to strike all beholders. He wore a great loose blanket coat, corduroy trowsers, and huge, heavy boots made for contending with mud and swamp; and his name was Ralph Regin. He had once been hostler at Scowl Hall, years before, but, detected in a theft, had left it, and never been seen again, until one memorable occasion, hereafter to be described, when the negroes said they saw him lurking about the premises.
A terrible murder had been perpetrated about the time of his disappearance. An inoffensive Dutch settler, with a very pretty wife and child, and possessing, it was well known, considerable wealth, had been murdered near his home down by Wheeling, and his log-house fired, and his wealth, family and furniture destroyed with it. The fire was so tremendous in its effect, that when there came neighbors from the nearest station, it was reduced to a pile of ashes, and was ever after left a memento of a terrible and mysterious tragedy.
“I know better than you,” said the girl, after a pause, “that he will not come to-night. His beauty will not be here.”
“I reckon not; it ain’t likely; the boys ain’t up yar yet, and I don’t conclude one or tu will like to go down to Crow’s Nest. Harrod ain’t no chicken, I know. He’ll fit.”
“Of course he will, and I hope he’ll kill the wretches. What does he want with this work? She is to be his wife—”
“Wake snakes and walk chalks, my pretty Kate,” said the ugly innkeeper; “not so sure—”
“What mean you?” exclaimed the girl called Kate, clutching his arm.
“Well, don’t be so raspish. It seems she don’t convene to him just as much as she used; she’s kicked once or twice; she don’t like to break off, and jist right away, but she’s riled him a few. Howsomdever, he knows she don’t like him.”
“Why, then, will he persecute her? Why will he not give her up? He must be meaner and baser than an Indian.”
“You women is so mighty quick. She’s rich, and my! ain’t she bootiful—sich eyes, and sich a skin; she’s about the smartest gal in these parts.”