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.”