“Thar’s one—a young critter o’ a girl.”
“That all?” I asked—seeing that my companion hesitated, as if he had something more to say, but was backward about declaring it.
“No, stranger—thar war another girl—older than this ’un.”
“And she?”
“She—she’s gone away.”
“Married, I suppose?”
“That’s what nobody ’bout here can tell nor whar she’s gone, neyther.”
The tone in which the young fellow spoke had suddenly altered from gay to grave; and, by a glimpse of the moonlight, I could perceive that his countenance was shadowed and sombre. I could have but little doubt as to the cause of this transformation. It was to be found in the subject of our conversation—the absent daughter of the squatter. From motives of delicacy I refrained from pushing my inquiries farther; but, indeed, I should have been otherwise prevented from doing so: for, just at that moment, the road once more narrowed, and we were forced apart. By the eager urging of his horse into the dark path, I could perceive that the hunter was desirous of terminating a dialogue—to him, in all probability, suggestive of bitter memories.
For another half hour we rode on in silence—my companion apparently buried in a reverie of thought—myself speculating on the chances of an unpleasant encounter: which, from the hints I had just had, was now rather certain than probable. Instead of a welcome from the squatter, and a bed in the corner of his cabin, I had before my mind the prospect of a wordy war; and, perhaps afterwards, of spending my night in the woods. Once or twice, I was on the point of proclaiming my errand, and asking the young hunter for advice as how I should act; but as I had not yet ascertained whether he was friend or foe of my future hypothetical antagonist, I thought it more prudent to keep my secret to myself.
His voice again fell upon my ear—this time in a more cheerful tone. It was simply to say, that I “might shortly expect a better road—we were approaching a ‘gleed;’ beyont that the trace war wider, an’ we might ride thegither again.”