I made no answer to the rough query. I saw that my last summons had been sufficient. I could hear the hewn floor-planks cracking under a heavy boot; and knew from this, that my questioner was passing towards the door. In another instant he stood in the doorway--his body filling it from side to side--from head to stoop. A fearful-looking man was before me. A man of gigantic stature, with a beard reaching to the second button of his coat; and above it a face, not to be looked upon without a sensation of terror: a countenance expressive of determined courage, but, at the same time, of ferocity, untempered by any trace of a softer emotion. A shaggy sand-coloured beard, slightly grizzled; eyebrows like a _chevaux-de-frise_ of hogs' bristles; eyes of a greenish-grey, with a broad livid scar across the left cheek, were component parts in producing this expression; while a red cotton kerchief, wound, turban-like, around the head, and, pulled low down in front, rendered it more palpable and pronounced. A loose coat of thick green blanket, somewhat faded and worn, added to the colossal appearance of the man; while a red-flannel shirt served him also for a vest. His large limbs were inserted in pantaloons of blue Kentucky _jeans_ cloth; but these were scarcely visible, hidden by the skirt of the ample blanket-coat that draped down below the tops of a pair of rough horse-skin boots reaching above the knee, and into which the trousers had been tucked. The face of the man was a singular picture; the colossal stature rendered it more striking; the costume corresponded; and all were in keeping with the rude manner of my reception. It was idle to ask the question. From the description given me by the young backwoodsman, I knew the man before me to be Hickman Holt the squatter. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. A ROUGH RECEPTION. For fashion's sake, I was about to utter the usual formula, "Mr Holt, I presume?" but the opportunity was not allowed me. No sooner had the squatter appeared in his doorway, than he followed up his blasphemous interrogatory with a series of others, couched in language equally rude. "What's all this muss about? Durn yur stinkin' imperence, who air ye? an' what air ye arter?" "I wish to see Mr Holt," I replied, struggling hard to keep my temper. "Ye wish to see Mister Holt? Thur's no _Mister_ Holt 'bout hyur." "No?" "No! damnation, no! Didn't ye hear me!" "Do I understand you to say, that Hickman Holt does not live here?" "You understan' me to say no sich thing. Eft's Hick Holt ye mean, he diz live hyur." "Hick Holt--yes that is the name." "Wall what o't, ef't is?" "I wish to see him." "Lookee hyur, stranger!" and the words were accompanied by a significant look; "ef yur the shariff, Hick Holt ain't at home--ye understand me? _he ain't at home_."