Torridon, from behind a great tree, watched them working, their paddles flashing rhythmically, and the wake dotted with small whirlpools where the wooden blades had dipped and pulled. Rapidly they approached. The craft was long and slender, made roughly, but with infinite grace. In the center was a mound, covered with a buffalo robe. A rifle lay at the hand of either paddler, but they seemed to pay no attention to the banks of the stream until—there was a sudden shout. The steersman backed water strongly, and the paddler in the bow shipped his paddle and caught up a long rifle. Lightly he balanced it, and stared straight at the tree that sheltered Torridon.
So alert and keen did the two appear that Torridon felt as though the tree were small protection, indeed. He shouted in haste: “A friend! White man!” And he cautiously exposed himself a little, waving a hand.
The man in the bow nodded. “Come out and show yourself!” he called.
Torridon slowly stepped into view.
“What might you be aiming at?” said the steersman at this.
“Fort Kendry,” said Torridon eagerly. “Do you know where it is?”
The bowsman turned and chuckled and the steersman chuckled as well. They let the canoe drift slowly ahead, the faint wake darkening the water behind them. There was not a sound. Then a fish leaped and splashed heavily, but still the two allowed their craft to float on, paying little heed to Torridon’s question, but staring at him curiously.
“Do you know?” cried Torridon. “Is it many days away?” He followed them along the bank, imploring: “For God’s sake, come to the bank and tell me where I am. I’ve been lost. . . .”
They laughed again. Either they were mad or else they were callous brutes. Then, as they began to dip their paddles once more, the bowsman called over his shoulder: “Go round the next bend!” And they swept on down the shining river.
Torridon, sick at heart, looked after them until his eyes were blinded by the sun path over the water. He had so yearned to be among his kind again, and this was a sample of their greeting.
He went back to Ashur and mounted him with a sigh. He hesitated. It might well be that the proper course was down the stream, and yet he was curious about what might lie around the next bend. He sent Ashur forward at a dog-trot, the mare following leisurely, picking at tempting tufts of grass, here and there. And so, finally, he rounded the broad bend of the stream and through the margin of trees he saw before him a dazzling flash, as though a powerful glass had been focused in his eyes. He rushed on through the trees.
It was the reflection from a windowpane, and not a quarter of a mile away he saw the tall rock walls of a little fort, with three small cannon topping the walls—each gun hooded to the muzzle with tarpaulin. Around the knees of those strong bastions were scattered huts, lean-tos, dog tents, Indian lodges.
Fort Kendry!
Torridon clasped his hands together. He was very young. And his sensitive soul had been long and hardly tried. He had been through the long valley of death, as it were, and now he hardly resisted the impulse to weep, but let the hot tears tumble down his face. Sobs rose and choked him. These, out of awe of the forest silence, he kept down.
But no, that silence already was broken. Out of the distance came the brisk and ringing noise of a hammer, rapidly applied, and on the heels of it a dog began to howl—a scream of fear and pain, that died in a succession of rapid yelps.
Torridon sighed again. He almost forgot that this was the happy goal; he almost forgot that beautiful Nancy Brett was somewhere in that collection of tents and houses, or in the solid circumference of the fort itself. Between her and him there existed a thick veil of brutal humanity, and this he must try to brush aside. It seemed to poor Torridon, indeed, that the dog had cried out to say the thing that was in his own soul.
Then stifled laughter came from nearby. He saw two men peering out at him, their faces convulsed with mirth. Brutal, savage faces he thought them, more brutal than the face of any Indian. He gasped at the sight of them, and, as he showed fear, a leering joy gleamed in the eyes of the larger of the pair. He thrust himself out into the trail and laid a hand on the bridle of Torridon’s horse.
“What’re you blubberin’ about?” he asked. “Who are you, and where are you goin’?”
“And where,” asked the second fellow, stepping forward in turn, but keeping a bit to the rear, “did you get them horses? Who give ’em to you?”
“Who’d you steal ’em from, you better ask?” said the first of the worthies. “Get down here on the ground and let me have a look at that horse.”
Torridon shuddered as he heard the command. Many a time a man passed through many perils, through many dark moments, and the cup was dashed from his lips at the very moment when he had won to it.
“D’you hear?” bellowed the first speaker, and laid a hand of iron upon the knee of Torridon. “Down off that horse, or I’ll pick you outten the saddle and throw you in the river, you sneakin’ thief. That’s what you are. I can see it by the coward look of you. Get out of the saddle! Move!”
The miracle had happened to Torridon before, more than once, and, when the supreme moment came mind and forethought vanished. A sheer physical instinct took command. So it did now. Into his hand winked a long, slender, double-barreled pistol, and he thrust the barrels straight into the throat of the other.
“Sufferin’ jack rabbits . . .” began the big man. He paused, mouth agape. His eyes, round and wide, read the face of Torridon as a child reads indecipherable print in a primer.
There was the other, however, to consider. He was circling cat-like to the rear.
“Keep your friend back,” said Torridon, “or I’ll give you one barrel and try the other on him. Tell him to get here behind you, where I can keep an eye on him.”
To his own amazement, the thing was done. Like two awed children they stood before him.
“Now,” said Torridon, wicked pleasure coming to him, “tell me if I am a horse thief?”
The first man, rascal though he might be, had recovered from the first shock. He was able to grin down the pistol barrels. “Son,” he said, “you got the bill of sale right there in your hand. I didn’t see it at first. Matter of fact, I guess you got two bills of sale.”
“Then drop your rifles and back up to the trees,” ordered Torridon.
It was done, in turn. They let the long guns fall—then slowly moved back, watching Torridon cautiously all the time.
“Only, will you mind tellin’ me,” asked one of them, “how you filled your hand? Did you have that gun up your sleeve all the while?”
He said it wistfully, and Torridon could not help smiling. Then, at a touch of his knee, Ashur moved forward. The gray mare cantered beside him. He rounded the next turn among the trees and, glancing back, saw that the pair of ruffians had not moved. He was not overjoyed as he went on, but he had an odd interest in the knowledge that those heavy, trustworthy rifles, even in practiced hands, had proved but clumsy protectors at close range, where speed was of avail.
Then his heart began to lift. No doubt he was riding into a brutal society, but it might be that he would find in himself a sufficient manhood to face the members of it down.
He was entering the town. There were no streets. Between the houses the ways were simply surface soil, beaten to a muddy pie by rain and the cutting of ten thousand hoofs. The horses dislodged one foot at a time, with a loud, popping sound. The pedestrians going here and there wore to a man strong boots, clotted with the mud. And altogether it seemed to Torridon the dreariest little patched and crazy quilt-work village that ever he had seen.