The King's Arrow Part 36

"Are you sure, Miss? Didn't he tell you how I forced him to leave home, and told him never to come here again?"

"He said nothing to me about it, Mr. Timon. He never mentioned your name, and when I asked him about his father, he always changed the subject."

"My G.o.d! Did he!" The man's hands clutched hard at the blanket, and his eyes turned upon the girl's face expressed something of the agony of his soul. "And he never betrayed me," he murmured as if to himself.

"Did he tell you about his mother?"

"Oh, yes, he often spoke to me about her, and told me what a n.o.ble woman she was. He said that he owed everything to her."

"He did, eh? Well, I guess it's true. She influenced him more than I did, and that was why he left after her death."

"Why was that?"

"He followed her in loyalty to King George. Later he joined the King's rangers, and became Davidson's chief courier, 'The King's Arrow,' as he is called. That was more than I could stand."

"And so you had a fight?"

"No, not a fight, Miss. I was hot, I acknowledge, but Dane never said a word. I can't forget, though, the look in his eyes as he left me, and I have not seen him since."

"But you have heard about him, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes, reports of his doings reach me from time to time; that is all." The man sighed, and shifted a little to an easier position.

"Would you like to see him?" Jean asked. "I am sure that he would be only too glad to come to you."

"Do you think so, Miss? But why should he come after what I said to him?"

"Because he is so n.o.ble and true. You little know what he is to me.

Look," and she raised her hand to the arrow at her throat, "he gave me this. It is a token of our love. He made it with his own hands from a coin given to him by his mother. It was the means of saving me from the slashers. Kitty saw it first, and it told her about me."

"Your story is really wonderful, girl, and I am thankful that you have been saved. It means more to me than you imagine."

"In what way?"

"Don't you know? Because you were saved, you and those Indians were on hand to deliver me from that moose."

"So that is the reason, then, why you are so kind to me, and allowed those supplies to go to those needy Loyalists."

"No it is not," was the curt reply. "My life is of little value to any one. It's because you are James Sterling's daughter; that's why. I would do anything for his sake. He was a good friend of mine, and so was his wife."

"I am thankful that you knew them. Was it for long, Mr. Norwood?"

"Why do you call me that?"

"Isn't that your name?"

"Heavens! No. I am Thomas Norman, your father's old friend."

At this confession Jean uttered a cry of amazement, and stared at the man before her. She was almost too confused to think, so overwhelming was her emotion. She felt that she must be dreaming, so wonderful did it all appear.

"Yes," the man continued, "it is better for you to know all, and it relieves my mind. Dane took the first part of his right name, and merely changed the second. Now you understand all."

Jean did understand, and it gave her cause for much thought. She sat down and gazed silently into the fire. How glad her father would be to know that his friend was alive. And yet he would be greatly distressed when he learned that he was a rebel. Could they ever be friends again?

she wondered. This modern Timon, with such hatred in his heart to the King and the Loyalists, was not the man her father had known in the days of old. Loyalty with the latter was a vital thing, and how could he endure a man so bitterly opposed to the King?

The invalid surmised her thoughts as he watched her. She presented a charming picture, ensconced in the deep chair, and he could well understand how Dane must love her. He had always longed for a daughter, and of the many girls he had ever known, the one now before him appealed to him most of all. She was the only white woman who had entered his house since his wife's death, and he had been strongly drawn to her from the first time of meeting. Living so much among rough, rebellious men, he had acquired many of their ways. But in the presence of this sweet, gentle girl these had vanished like ice before the bright sun, and the real n.o.bleness of his nature re-a.s.serted itself. He was tired of the life he had been living for years. He longed for companions after his own heart, and a home such as he had known in the past. And what a home the girl before him would make!

And reconciled to his only son, what a heaven on earth it would be!

CHAPTER XXVI

BEHIND THE BOLTED DOOR

When Thomas Norman fled with his wife and child from the restraining bonds of civilisation and became the leader of a band of lawless rovers of the wild, he little realised how far-reaching would be the effect of his rash and hasty action. In the spirit of revenge he had sown the wind, but he had forgotten the whirlwind that one day he would be called upon to reap. For a time he had rejoiced in flaming the embers of rebellion against the King, thinking thus to get more than even for his imaginary injury. The war had filled him with delight, and he did everything in his power to arouse the people, both whites and Indians, against King George. For a while he was certain of success, especially when a.s.sistance came from the rebelling states in the form of presents for the Indians and a personal letter from General Washington, accompanied by belts of wampum. For a time he made remarkable progress, and so stirred the Indians that at last they started on the warpath against the English. Ninety canoes filled with warriors headed down river to ravage the country around Fort Howe. But they were met by James Simonds, the trader at Portland Point, and a conference was held along the river. Before giving an answer, the head chief, Pierre Tomah, said that he must consult the Divine being. So throwing himself upon his face in the sand, he lay motionless for the s.p.a.ce of nearly an hour. Then rising, he informed the other chiefs that he had been advised by the Great Spirit to keep peace with King George's men.

After that a treaty was signed at Fort Howe. General Washington's presents were delivered up, the Indians drank the health of the King, they were feasted and presented with numerous gifts. All this was a great blow to Thomas Norman, although he continued to inflame the few Indians who still remained rebellious as well as the renegade white men.

His wife, a gentle and refined woman, never agreed with him in his disloyalty to the King. At first she pleaded and reasoned, but at last gave up in despair, and devoted herself to her simple household affairs, and the training of her one child, the only comfort of her solitary life. When at length she left him and he laid her body to rest at the foot of a big pine tree, he was a heart-broken man. He understood when it was too late what she had meant to him. Then when Dane, influenced by his mother's teaching, left him to become one of the King's rangers, his cup of sorrow was filled to overflowing. For months after he lived a lonely life within his silent house, dreaded by the slashers and Indians alike. The latter shunned his solitary abode, and always spoke of him on rare occasions as the chief with the "twisted head."

When, however, the English forces were defeated, and the war brought to a close, Norman's hopes again revived. He became active once more, feeling certain that the Indians and others would now side with the conquerors and wrest England's grip from the valley of the St. John River. The King's mast-cutters had been a source of continual worry to him. Why should those great pines be used for the royal navy? he asked. They belonged to the natives and other occupants of the land, and should be reserved for future needs. The marking of the choicest trees with the broad arrow filled his heart with bitterness, and his words so aroused the rebel brood around him that they decided to drive the mast-cutters out of the country, and put a stop to the business.

The arrival of thousands of Loyalists also stirred him deeply, and he spread the report, which was readily taken up, that the newcomers would settle on all the good land, slaughter the game, and force the rightful owners to leave.

The failure of the attempt upon the Loyalists during the fall, and the carrying of Flazeet and Rauchad to Fort Howe had only embittered the rebels who had not taken part in the affair. They roused to action, and determined to wreak revenge upon the mast-cutters between the St.

John and the A-jem-sek. They had arranged their plans with much secrecy, but they learned at the last minute that in some mysterious manner word had reached the rangers, who were hastening to the a.s.sistance of the King's men. There was, accordingly, no time to lose.

They must strike at once, and then vanish into the depths of the forest.

Thomas Norman was well aware of this proposed attack upon the mast-cutters. Although he did not oppose it, he took little interest in the matter. In fact, he had very little ambition for anything. He was feeling somewhat weary during the fall, and the silence of his house was more depressing than ever. During the lonely days, and still more lonely nights, he thought much about the past. He knew that he had made a failure of life, and that he had nothing to live for now.

At times he would endeavor to fan the coals of rebellion by reading "King Lear," "Timon of Athens," and the story of Old Aeneas. But the effect was never lasting, and when the artificial stimulation subsided he was more depressed than ever.

Such was his mood the day he rushed forth from the unbearable loneliness of his house and encountered the moose. The accident, and the meeting with the girl had aroused him for a while, and his old-time spirit of rebellion flared up in his pa.s.sionate outburst against the King and the Loyalists. But it was only temporary, and when he learned that the girl was James Sterling's daughter, he was forced to capitulate. He made a few spasmodic efforts after that, but the gentleness of the girl, together with the fact that she knew and loved Dane, swept everything else away.

His great concern now was about the rebels. They could march against the mast-cutters if they wished, but he did not want them to see Jean.

He knew what they were like, and when their coa.r.s.e brutal natures became inflamed through liquor, there was no telling what they might do. For this reason he had urged Dave to turn them aside, and induce them to march straight overland. Of the success of this plan he had little hope, as the slashers knew of the rum he kept on hand, and for that they would come, if for nothing else.

So that night as he lay there watching Jean as she sat before the fire, he listened intently, expecting every minute to hear the voices and steps of the undesired rebels. Bitterly now he regretted his action in the past, and almost cursed himself for his blind folly. Several times he was on the point of warning Jean of her danger. But how could he tell her, and what good would it do? There was no place where she could go for protection, and he was helpless to aid her. His only comfort lay in the hope that he could influence the men by making them think that she was his daughter. This, he knew, would be but a poor excuse, and it was hardly likely that they would believe him. They were well aware that he had no daughter, and would look upon the girl's presence in the house in one light only. A groan escaped his lips as he thought of this.

"Are you suffering much?" Jean asked, going to his side. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Not for me, I'm afraid," was the reply. "There is something, though, that you can do. I may have visitors to-night, and no doubt they will be hungry. Do you think you could carry those provisions into this room? I don't want the men to disturb you. I hope those sacks will not be too heavy."

"I think I can do it," Jean replied. "Where shall I put them?"

"As near the door there as possible. And the rum; don't forget that, I was going to ask you to pour it out in the snow for fear that the men might drink too much. But that might not be wise. They know I have it, and if they do not get it they might become ugly."

It took Jean some time to carry and drag in the supplies and stack them in a corner near the door. She understood fairly well the meaning of this, and it filled her heart with a nameless fear. This was increased when she had with difficulty brought in the rum, and stood panting after the exertion.

"There is a strong bolt on the door of your room," Norman explained.

"It might be well to keep it fastened when the men are here, for one can never tell what might happen."