“To see Hick Holt? Wal, ef that’s all yur bizness, you’ve seed him; an’ now ye kin go.”
This was rather a literal interpretation of my demand; but, without permitting myself to be nonplussed by it, or paying any heed to the abrupt words of dismissal, I replied, half interrogatively: “You, then, are he? You are Hick Holt, I suppose?”
“Who said I ain’t—durn your imperence? Now, then, what d’ye want wi’ me?”
The filthy language, the insulting tone in which it was uttered, the bullying manner of the man—evidently relying upon his giant strength, and formidable aspect—were rapidly producing their effect upon me; but in a manner quite contrary to that anticipated by Master Holt. It was no doubt his design to awe me; but he little knew the man he had to deal with. Whether it might be called courage or not, I was just as reckless of life as he. I had exposed my person too often, both in single combat and on the battle-field, to be cowed by a bully—such as I fancied this fellow to be—and the spirit of resistance was fast rising within me. His dictatorial style was unendurable; and discarding all further prudential considerations, I resolved to submit to it no longer. I did not give way to idle recrimination. Perhaps, thought I, a firm tone may suit my purpose better; and, in my reply, I adopted it. Before I could answer his question, however, he had repeated it in a still more peevish and impatient manner—with an additional epithet of insult. “Wal, Mister Jaybird,” said he, “be quick ’bout it! What d’ye want wi’ me?”
“In the first place Mr Hickman Holt, I want civil treatment from you; and secondly—”
I was not permitted to finish my speech. I was interrupted by an exclamation—a horrid oath—that came fiercely hissing from the lips of the squatter.
“Damnation!” cried he; “you be damned! Civil treetmint i’deed! You’re a putty fellur to talk o’ civil treetmint, arter jumpin’ yur hoss over a man’s fence, an’ ridin’ slap-jam inter his door, ’ithout bein’ asked! Let me tell yer, Mister Gilt Buttons, I don’t ’low any man—white, black, or Injun—to enter my clarin’ ’ithout fust knowin’ his reezun. Ye hear that, d’ye?”
“Your clearing! Are you sure it is yours?”
The squatter turned red upon the instant. Rage may have been the passion that brought the colour to his cheeks; but I could perceive that my words had produced another emotion in his mind, which added to the hideousness of the cast at that moment given to his features.
“Not my clarin’!” he thundered, with the embellishment of another imprecation—“not my clarin’! Shew me the man, who says it’s not!—shew’m to me! By the Almighty Etarnal he won’t say’t twice.”