CHAPTER X
BRIAN, THE STILL-HUNTER
"O'er memory's glass I see his shadow flit, Though he was gathered to the silent dust Long years ago. A strange and wayward man, That shunn'd companionship, and lived apart; The leafy covert of the dark brown woods, The gleamy lakes, hid in their gloomy depths, Whose still, deep waters never knew the stroke Of cleaving oar, or echoed to the sound Of social life, contained for him the sum Of human happiness. With dog and gun, Day after day he track'd the nimble deer Through all the tangled mazes of the forest."
It was early day. I was alone in the old shanty, preparing
breakfast, and now and then stirring the cradle with my foot, when
a tall, thin, middle-aged man walked into the house, followed by two
large, strong dogs.
Placing the rifle he had carried on his shoulder, in a corner of the
room, he advanced to the hearth, and without speaking, or seemingly
looking at me, lighted his pipe and commenced smoking. The dogs, after growling and snapping at the cat, who had not given the strangers a very courteous reception, sat down on the hearth-stone on either side of their taciturn master, eyeing him from time to time, as if long habit had made them understand all his motions. There was a great contrast between the dogs. The one was a brindled bulldog of the largest size, a most formidable and powerful brute; the other a staghound, tawny, deep-chested, and strong-limbed. I regarded the man and his hairy companions with silent curiosity.
He was between forty and fifty years of age; his head, nearly bald, was studded at the sides with strong, coarse, black curling hair. His features were high, his complexion brightly dark, and his eyes, in size, shape, and colour, greatly resembled the eyes of a hawk. The face itself was sorrowful and taciturn; and his thin, compressed lips looked as if they were not much accustomed to smile, or often to unclose to hold social communion with any one. He stood at the side of the huge hearth, silently smoking, his eyes bent on the fire, and now and then he patted the heads of his dogs, reproving their exuberant expression of attachment, with—"Down, Music; down, Chance!"
"A cold, clear morning," said I, in order to attract his attention
and draw him into conversation.
A nod, without raising his head, or withdrawing his eyes from the
fire, was his only answer; and, turning from my unsociable guest, I took up the baby, who just then awoke, sat down on a low stool by the table, and began feeding her. During this operation, I once or twice caught the stranger's hawk-eye fixed upon me and the child, but word spoke he none; and presently, after whistling to his dogs, he resumed his gun, and strode out.
When Moodie and Monaghan came in to breakfast, I told them what a
strange visitor I had had; and Moodie laughed at my vain attempt to
induce him to talk.
"He is a strange being," I said; "I must find out who and what he is."
In the afternoon an old soldier, called Layton, who had served
during the American war, and got a grant of land about a mile in
the rear of our location, came in to trade for a cow. Now, this
Layton was a perfect ruffian; a man whom no one liked, and whom all
feared. He was a deep drinker, a great swearer, in short, a perfect
reprobate; who never cultivated his land, but went jobbing about
from farm to farm, trading horses and cattle, and cheating in a
pettifogging way. Uncle Joe had employed him to sell Moodie a young
heifer, and he had brought her over for him to look at. When he
came in to be paid, I described the stranger of the morning; and
as I knew that he was familiar with every one in the neighbourhood, I asked if he knew him.