“There’s a squatter upon it, then?”
“On Holt’s Clearin’? Wal, I shed rayther say there air a squatter on’t, an’ no mistake.”
“His name is Holt is it not?”
“That same individooal.”
“Do you think I could procure a guide in Swampville—some one who could show me the way to Holt’s Clearing?”
“Do I think so? Possible you might. D’ye see that ar case in the coon-cap?” The speaker looked, rather than pointed, to the young fellow of the buckskin shirt; who, outside the verandah, was now standing by the side of a very sorry-looking steed. I replied in the affirmative. “Wal, I reckon he kin show you the way to Holt’s Clearin’. He’s another o’ them Mud Crik squatters. He’s just catchin’ up his critter to go that way.”
This I hailed as a fortunate circumstance. If the young hunter lived near the clearing I was in search of, perhaps he could give me all the information I required; and his frank open countenance led me to believe he would not withhold it. It occurred to me, therefore, to make a slight change in my programme. It was yet early—for supper in the backwoods is what is elsewhere known as “tea.” The sun was still an hour or so above the horizon. My horse had made but a light journey; and nine miles more would be nothing to him. All at once, then, I altered my intention of sleeping at the hotel; and determined, if the young hunter would accept me as a travelling companion, to proceed along with him to Mud Creek. Whether I should find a bed there, never entered into my calculation. I had my great-sleeved cloak strapped upon the cantle of my saddle; and with that for a covering, and the saddle itself for a pillow, I had made shift on many a night, more tempestuous than that promised to be.
I was about turning away to speak to the young man, when I was recalled by an exclamation from the landlord:—“I guess,” said he, in a half-bantering way, “you hain’t told me your business yet?”
“No,” I answered deferentially, “I have not.”
“What on airth’s takin’ you to Holt’s Clearin’?”