Roger Lincoln was for taking the big Indian in hand at once, but Torridon dissuaded him. He pointed out that his relations with Standing Bull had been more friendly than hostile. And, at any rate, they were safely in from their long voyage over the prairie.
They took Nancy to her uncle’s house, and Torridon only hung in the background long enough to hear the shrill nasal cry of joy with which her strong-armed aunt welcomed her.
Then, with Roger Lincoln, he went toward the fort.
They were welcomed effusively. On that wild frontier strange exploits took place every day, but there was a peculiar strangeness about the adventures of Torridon and Nancy Brett. The commandant sat them down at his own table, and a crowded table it was to which Roger Lincoln was asked to give the details of the escape. He gave them with the utmost consideration of Torridon, but no matter what he said, the exploits of the boy were passed over. And if some eye lit with wonder and turned on Paul Torridon, the glance turned away again at once. Men want one of heroic appearance to fill the hero’s role, and Torridon looked too young, too weak, too timid, in fact, to satisfy. Everyone preferred to cast the entire glory upon Roger Lincoln. He filled the eye. He filled the mind, and he was known to have a long tale of glory in his past. This was treated as a crowning feat.
As for consideration of Paul Torridon, that unlucky youth himself blasted all opportunity when, as the party broke up, he was heard murmuring to his friend: “How shall I ever dare to go to Samuel Brett’s house to see Nancy, Roger?”
The remark was repeated with roars of laughter.
Hero? This? Fort Kendry told itself that it knew a man, and it could not be deceived.
But there was more trouble in store for Torridon. Some few lingered with the commandant after the supper party had broken up, and Torridon, with others, had gone to bed. And in the midst of this final chatting, there was a rap at the door, and a huge young man in rather ragged deerskins appeared before them. He wanted Paul Torridon, he said.
“Torridon’s not here.” said Roger Lincoln. “But I’m his friend. Can I give him a message? He’s gone to bed, dead tired. I don’t want to disturb him unless it’s very important.”
The youth in the doorway stepped a little inside and ran his bold eyes over the company.
“It might be important, it might not,” he said. “That all depends. My name is Dick Brett. I come out here with my brother Joe. We come hunting for a low skunk and yellow-hearted cur by name of Paul Torridon. We heard he was here. But if he ain’t . . . just somebody tell him that I’m gonna be waiting for him in the street in front of Chick Marvin’s store tomorrow morning about nine. If he comes and finishes me off, then he can take on Joe. But if he don’t come, I’m gonna hunt him down and finish him. I guess that’s about all.” He waited a moment.
There was an uneasy instant during which the guests half expected Roger Lincoln to attack this slanderer of his friend, but Roger Lincoln said not a word. And Dick Brett departed unhindered.
“What’ll be done, Roger?” asked the commandant uneasily. “It’s sort of a shame for a kid like that Torridon to be put on by one of Brett’s size. Any relation of that same Nancy?”
“Second cousin,” Roger Lincoln said smoothly. “And what do you think will happen when Torridon gets this message?”
“He’ll be heading back for the open lands,” chuckled the commandant.
There was a general nodding of heads.
“And what,” said Roger Lincoln, “will happen if he goes out to meet the pair of them?”
“Roger,” said one of the trappers, “I like you fine, and I know that you’ve got brains in your head. But you made a mistake about this here one. He ain’t got nothing in him. I looked him in the eye. He dropped his look. He’s pretty thin stuff for the making of a man.”
Roger Lincoln looked about him with a sigh. “I knew it would come unless I got him away quickly,” he said, “but I hoped that I’d have more time than this.”
“Before we found him out to be yellow, Roger?” asked the commandant curiously.
“Before,” said Lincoln, “you found him out a man-eater. Man, man, do you think I was talking for fun, tonight? Did I tell you he shot four Cheyennes out of their saddles with a pistol during that chase? And I tell you again that he’ll never be stopped by those great hulks, the Bretts! Only . . . how can he marry Nancy after he’s shed the blood of her kindred?”
“That’s sounding talk,” said the commandant calmly. “But you know yourself, Roger, that the kid would never dream of coming to the scratch, unless he knew that you’d be there to back him up.”
“Then,” said Roger Lincoln, “I’ll I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll let one of the rest of you carry the word to Torridon. I’ll not go near him tonight or tomorrow. And heaven help the Brett boys, is all that I have to say.”
XVI
When Torridon heard the news, he merely lifted his head from the pillow and stared at the commandant with such gleaming eyes that that gentleman withdrew in some haste. He went thoughtfully back to his table companions.
“Roger,” he said slowly, “maybe there’s something in what you were saying.”
But Torridon himself merely lay awake for a few moments, staring into the darkness, then he fell into an untroubled sleep. When he wakened, he found himself singing as he sponged with cold water and then shaved. And in the midst of that singing he paused and struck himself lightly across the forehead with the back of his hand.
It was not as it had been of old. He should be cowering sick at heart in a corner. Instead, there was wine in his blood. And he remembered with a shock what Roger Lincoln had said about the hot taste of blood, never to be forgotten.
He shook that thought away. He had slept late. At 7:30 a.m. he went out from the fort to a vacant field, shrouded with fir trees, all whitened and frosted over by a slowly falling rain mist. He fired ten shots at a small sapling. When it sagged and then toppled over with a sharp, splintering sound, he cleaned his gun thoroughly, reloaded it, and went in for his breakfast.
Breakfast was over. The cook could give him only soggy, cold slices of fried bacon and cold pone, heavy as wood. Yet, with lukewarm coffee, that was a feast to Torridon. The famine of the long ride was still in his bones. He found the cook watching him curiously. When he came out into the big yard of the fort, other men left off their occupations and regarded him with the same wondering, hungry eyes, as though they could not believe what they saw.
He asked for Roger Lincoln. Roger was not there, it appeared. Well, he was glad of that. Roger, at least, would not be there to see the fight. Roger would not be there to accuse him. He felt a sudden pang of shame as he went into the street. Those other men, rifle raised and rifle trained, how could they stand against the subtle speed of a pistol at short range? Ah, well, they were Bretts. What pity need a Torridon show them?
And a terrible joy filled the blood of Torridon. He wanted to laugh and sing. He wanted to run. But he made himself go with a soft, quiet step, with a composed face; what wonder that his eye was fire, then?