War Drums (Sass)/Chapter 27
MR. O'SULLIVAN told them the story: how Falcon and himself had fought; how the Indians had attacked; how Jock Pearson had been killed by an arrow; how Meg had ridden madly into the midst of their foes; how Falcon had pulled him down upon the ground and thus had saved him; how Falcon and he had dashed for the horses and escaped. He told of their meeting with Striking Hawk, who, after sounding his panther signal to give warning of Falcon's approach, had circled through the woods and thus had avoided the Cherokee war party; and finally he told of how Little Mink had found them. Throughout the narrative, Falcon sat silent on his horse, his arrogant eyes seldom straying from Jolie's face; and when the tale was finished, there were tears on Jolie's cheeks, Almayne was cursing softly, and Lachlan's black eyes were smouldering above lips that were, tight and stern.
Almayne was the first to speak.
"Jock was my good friend," he said, "and Ugly Meg was worth a dozen ordinary women. But that's past. We can't help them now."
His gray-blue eyes rested a moment on Falcon's face.
"Mr. O'Sullivan," said he briskly, "you tell us that this man, Falcon, saved your life. Maybe that's true, but he did it to save his own skin. If the Cherokees had seen you standing there, they'd have rushed you, and they'd have got his scalp as well as yours."
Falcon's cool, insolent smile broadened.
"I have already pointed that out to Mr. O'Sullivan," he said quietly. "Mr. O'Sullivan owes me nothing."
"That's settled, then," continued Almayne, with evident satisfaction. "In that case, I shall ask Captain Falcon to let me have his sword, after which he can go for a little walk in the woods with Striking Hawk and Little Mink."
Jolie failed for an instant to catch the meaning of the hunter's words. Suddenly their grim significance came to her, and her breath quickened. Sick with horror, she glanced at Almayne and saw the deadly purpose in his eyes. Hitherto she had not once looked at Falcon. Now her eyes, as though some irresistible fascination compelled them, sought his face.
His smile had faded. Perhaps from his tanned, florid cheeks a little of the blood had drained. The half-contemptuous, half-whimsical insolence was gone from his eyes. Yet while she watched, the smile came back and the dark eyes under their over-hanging brows gleamed with sudden fire.
"I thank you, friend Almayne," he said dryly in his deep voice, "but I am not in the humour for a woodland ramble from which I should never return. You are five to one here. If you want my sword, come and take it."
Mr. O'Sullivan opened his lips to speak, but a gesture from Lachlan checked him. Lachlan drew Almayne aside, spoke earnestly in his ear. Jolie studied the hunter's frowning face, heard his grumbled remonstrance: "We've got the damned rattlesnake. Why not mash his head? If we don't we'll be sorry." She saw him spread his hands at last in reluctant acquiescence. Lachlan stepped back into the circle, and stood facing Falcon.
"Captain Falcon," he said, "we are six men and one woman in a country alive with enemies. I believe that I can rely on you to do your part in defending that woman from the dangers that surround her. I shall expect you to obey my orders and those of Almayne, and at the first sign of disobedience or treachery we shall shoot you instantly."
The old insolence flared in Falcon's eyes again. He bowed low to Lachlan.
"Mr. Lachlan McDonald," his deep voice boomed, "there was a time not long since when you served me faithfully and well aboard my brig. I engage, upon the honour of a soldier, and for the sake of this sweet lady, to obey you as faithfully now as you obeyed me then."
He swung down from his horse, turned his back towards Lachlan, as though the matter were ended, walked to where Jolie Stanwicke stood and bent low before her.
"Have you no greeting for me, lady?" he asked. "Is it not fitting that the latest recruit in your service should win some slight word of acknowledgment from your lips?"
Jolie stood silent, her eyes averted, her lips twitch ing. He waited, his head still bent, his mouth still curved in a smile. The silence lengthened. Slowly the blood mounted to his face; his hand resting on his sword-hilt tightened till the long fingers pressed deep into the flesh of his palm. A quiver ran through his frame as though uncontrollable passion shook it. But all at once he straightened and looked her in the eyes, his smile as arrogant as ever, no trace of embarrassment in his manner or his countenance.
"I shall not hold it against you, lady," he cried with a laugh. "I shall pray for a chance to prove that your newest recruit is worthy of reward."
They remained for three days in their green meadow in the heart of Great Santee. In front of Jolie's lean-to, on the evening of the third day, they held a council of war. Almayne was for staying where they were, and then, when the way was safe, returning to Charles Town. Falcon seconded this policy. Lachlan and Mr. Francis O'Sullivan were silent because both had been watching Jolie's face while Almayne had been speaking. When the hunter had outlined their position as he saw it, and Falcon had supported his proposal, Jolie spoke to Almayne:
"If there were no woman with you?" she asked quietly, "would you fear to push on through the inner country of the Cherokees to the place where Gilbert Barradell is a prisoner?"
"It would be dangerous, Mistress," the hunter answered. "But I think we could get through."
"Have you complaint to make," she continued, "of the woman you have with you—of her strength, of her courage? Has she been faint in the face of danger? Has she lagged and delayed your flight when it was necessary to flee?"
"By Zooks!" Almayne exclaimed, "she has proved herself brave and strong and I will bear witness that she can ride."
"And if she prefers to face the dangers that lie ahead rather than those that await her in Charles Town, will you go on with her upon this quest—and you, Mr. McDonald, and you, Mr. O'Sullivan?"
The hunter pursed his lips. "You may not understand, Mistress," he said gently, "the fate that would befall you if we were taken by the Indians."
"I do understand it," her eyes looked straight into his, "and I am not afraid."
She rose and stood before them, her cheeks pale, her eyes wide and shining, her silken, golden-red hair a halo of glory in the slanting sunlight—a slim, boyish figure in her embroidered buckskin jacket belted in at the waist and her fringed leggins—a boyish figure, yet the loveliest woman that any of the four men before her had ever seen.
"Oh, I know I am selfish," she cried, "I should not ask you to go on, to venture your lives for me. But I do ask it. I ask you to help me go to Gilbert Barradell. I ask it of you, James Almayne; of you, Lachlan McDonald; and of you, Mr. O'Sullivan."
There was nothing of tragedy in her tone, nothing that was theatrical; only a quiet dignity, a profound and solemn earnestness. It was this that moved them more than her words. She read their answers in their faces; but it was Falcon who spoke first.
"You do not ask it of me, lady," he said in his deep voice, his glowing eyes fixed upon her, "yet I will go."
Almayne eyed him, frowning.
"You will go," growled the hunter, "because the rest of us are going, and if we turned you loose in these woods, your life would not be worth tuppence."
"Lady," said Falcon calmly, "I have observed that our friend Almayne is somewhat lacking in the polish that marks the intercourse of gentlemen. Later, perhaps, I shall give him a lesson in manners."