Chapter 15

A PASSAGE AT ARMS

He stood motionless, one hand grasping the limb of a tree, leaning far out so as to gaze up the river, totally unconscious of my approach. The fellow was tall, yet heavily built, wearing a great leather helmet with brass facings, his body encased in a slashed doublet, the strap fastenings of a steel breastplate showing at waist and shoulders, while high boots of yellow cordovan leather extended above his knees. I noticed also the upward curve of a huge gray moustache against the stern profile of his face, while a long straight sword dangled at his side. Evidently the stranger was a soldier, and one not to be despised in feats at arms, although in what service I might merely conjecture, as his dress was not distinctive. Yet it was small likelihood any other nation than Spain had armed men in those parts.

That he had discovered and was watching our camp, I entertained no doubt, yet for the moment the surprise of seeing him was so great I was unable to choose my safer course,--should I withdraw silently as I came, or make quick attack? If the first, he would certainly see me recross the river, and suspect my mission. Nor was the other alternative more promising. If I sprang upon him (and he looked a burly antagonist), such combat could not be noiseless, and surely the fellow was not alone in this wilderness. How close at hand lurked his companions was beyond guessing, yet, if the sound of struggle aroused that band of wolves, my life would not be worth the snapping of a finger. I felt cold chills creep up my spine as I stood hesitating, one foot uplifted, my eyes staring at that motionless figure.

I waited too long, until every vantage left me. Suddenly the soldier swung back from his lookout on to firmer ground, wheeled, and faced me. I marked his start of surprise, noting his right hand drop, with soldierly instinct, upon the sword hilt, half drawing the blade before recovering from that first impulse. Then curiosity usurped the place of fear. He took one step backward, still upon guard, surveying me carefully with one glinting gray eye, for the other had been closed by a slashing cut, which left an ugly white scar extending half-way down his cheek. Except for this deformity, he was a man of fair appearance, having a stern, clearly chiselled face, with a certain arrogant manner, telling of long authority in scenes of war. A half smile of contempt played across his features as he ran me down from head to foot, evidently with the thought I was little worthy of his steel. It was then I recognized him. There had been familiarity about his great bulk from the first, yet now, as I faced him fairly, marking the haughty sneer curl his lips, I knew him instantly as that officer who passed us in the boat with the priest.

"By the true cross!" he exclaimed at last, as if his breath had barely returned, "you gave me a start such as I have not often had in all my soldiering. Yet you are no ghost; your aspect is altogether too healthful for one condemned to exist upon air. _Saprista_! you must have a light foot to steal thus on me unheard. Who are you, fellow? What do you here upon this soil of Spain?"

I leaned lightly on my rifle, so that I might swing it easily if occasion warranted, determined now not to fire unless it proved necessary to save my life, and made careless answer, using the same tongue in which I had been addressed.

"Nor are you more surprised, Señor, at my presence, than was I a moment back to stumble upon you when I supposed our party alone here in this wilderness. Who did you say held dominion over this country?"

"His most gracious Christian Majesty, Charles the Third, of Spain," he replied shortly. "As his officer, I require that you give proper heed and direct answer to my questioning. Who are you, and where are you going?"

The man's domineering manner amused me, yet I replied civilly to his words.

"A wandering hunter, Señor, from the Illinois country, homeward bound. I was not aware this territory had fallen into Spanish hands, supposing it still to be under French control. You are then a soldier of Spain?"

"Ay," he returned ungraciously, eying me in his irritating way, "of the battalion of Grenada."

He was evidently in doubt whether to believe my word, and I rejoiced to mark such indecision, accepting it as proof he had not gained a glimpse of De Noyan, for whom he was in eager search.

"It may be, fellow," he consented to say at last, "you speak truth, and it may be your tongue is false as hell. These are times of grave suspicion, yet there are means of discovery open to men of action. I just noted the position of your camp yonder, and have sufficient men within easy reach of my voice to make it mine if need arise. So I warn you to deal fairly, or accept the consequences. The Marquis de Serrato is not one given to speaking twice in such quest. I have a soft tongue in ladies' bowers, but my hand is hard enough in camp and field."

He uttered these words in fierce threat, his one evil eye glaring full at me as though to terrify. Before I could answer, he shot forth a question, direct as a bullet from a gun.

"I beheld the flap of a dress yonder amid those trees; what means it? Women are not common in these parts--have you one in your company?"

"We have, my lord," I replied, holding myself to calmness, striving to speak with apparent respect for his rank. "We are four, altogether; one has his wife along to cook for us."

"You are voyaging from New Orleans?"

"Nay; from the savannahs of Red River, where we enjoyed a good season of sport."

"You are French?"

"A natural guess, yet a wrong one, Señor. I am of English blood."

"_Saprista_! 't is a beast of a nation! I like not that such as you should be here. I will call some of my men and visit your camp." He spoke sternly, taking a step backward as if about to seek his companions. "The tale you tell may be true enough, yet these are troublous days along the river, and my orders are strict against permitting any to pass unsearched."

My hands clinched hard around the gun-barrel for a swing, while I braced my body for a leap forward, yet held back from such desperate action, making hazard of one more effort to draw him out.

"I have met soldiers of Spain before, my lord," I said, speaking the words with deference, yet managing to inject sufficient tinge of sarcasm to the tone, "yet never previously found them so fearful of a stray hunter's camp as not to dare approach it without a guard of armed men. My companions yonder are asleep, excepting the woman; we are only three, and of peaceful life. You would discover nothing except warm welcome at our fire."

I caught the quick responsive smile lighting his hard, thin face, observing how suddenly awakened pride and contempt combined to curl his upturned moustache.

"Ah!" he exclaimed gayly, with a derisive wave of the hand, "so you suppose it is from fear I proposed calling others to accompany me! _Caramba_! 'tis well you put your suspicion in no stronger words. But stay; I trust not altogether the truth of your tale. Saints' love! a soldier can place faith only in what he sees--yet your face is frank and simple enough, and, as you say, there are but three of you, besides the woman. I did mark that much from yonder tree. It will be small risk to one of my experience in arms, and my men sleep in weariness. Lead on, fellow, yet do not forget I wear this sword for use, not show."

With muttered thanksgiving at my possessing so honest a countenance, and a blessing on the Spaniard's pride, I turned back, beginning to retrace my steps along the narrow ridge, never deigning to glance across my shoulder, yet confident he was close behind. Every additional step I inveigled him from his camp was to my advantage, nor would I permit him to feel suspicion on my part, as fearlessness was certain to beget confidence, and my final plan of action was already made. We thus passed the spot where I had climbed the steep bank, and were, to the best of my memory, some twenty yards beyond the hiding-place of my boat, when the ridge widened, a thick fringe of low-growing trees completely shutting out all view of the water. It was a likely spot enough, having firm ground under-foot, with sufficient room for a royal struggle, and here I determined to try a passage-at-arms with my burly antagonist. It was useless to hope for surprise. He was an old soldier dogging my steps, doubtless eying my every motion, his own hand hard gripping his sword hilt, ready to cut me down did slightest need arise. No; it must be foot to foot, eye to eye, a club of steel against the dancing blade; yet I felt the strange contest would not prove unfair, for he was a man not as agile as in years agone, while his armor of proof, valuable as it might be in the turning of a sword thrust, would be more burden than protection against my rifle-stock.

"Señor," I said, in studied courtesy, stopping suddenly and confronting him, "I have hunted across this wilderness more than one season, and dislike greatly being estopped now by Spanish decree. Nor do I comprehend your right in this matter. Have you warrant for opposing our peaceful passage to the Ohio?"

He stared at me in undisguised amazement at my boldness, a grim smile on his hard, set face.

"Ay! I have, fellow," he finally retorted angrily, tapping his hilt. "'Tis in this scabbard at my side."

"Then draw it, Señor," I exclaimed, throwing forward my long rifle menacingly. "And may God stand with the better man."

I have a conception that at the moment he believed he was being fronted by a crazed man, yet there was in my face an expression quickly teaching him otherwise, and, with a swift twist, he flashed his sword forth into the sunlight, standing on guard.

"_Por Baco_!" he growled savagely, "you must be little better than a fool to hoist that club. It will give me pleasure to teach you better manners toward a grandee of Spain."

"Grandee, or not," I retorted, angered at his implied contempt, "I may teach you a trick, Señor, with that same club, never learned in your Spanish fencing-schools."

It was swift, intense fighting from the word, he proving past-master of his weapon, yet my stiff rifle-barrel was no mean defence against his lighter blade, with a reach preventing his point touching my body, and sufficient weight to bear down the thin, murderous steel whenever the two came into contact. It had been long practice with me, having picked up the pretty trick from a French zouave when I was a boy, so I swung the iron as if it were a single-stick; and, in truth, I know of no better fence against the stroke of a straight sword, although fencing-masters, I have heard, make light of it. Nevertheless it was new experience to this Spaniard, and it did me good to note how it angered the fellow to be held back by such a weapon. He made such stress to press in behind my guard that he began to pant like a man running a hard race. Nor did I venture to strike a blow in return, for, in simple truth, this soldier kept me busier with parry and feint than any swordsman before, while he tried every trick of his trade, not a few of them strange to me. So I bided my time, confident he must make an opening for fit return if he kept up such furious attack, and thus, with retreat and advance, hack and guard, thrust and parry, we tramped up a wide bit of ground, while there was no sound of the struggle, except our hard breathing, with now and then a fierce curse from him as his flashing steel nicked on my gun-barrel, or flew off into thin air just as he thought to send its deadly point home.

Such fighting is wearing even to seasoned nerves, and the dazzle of the sun bothered my eyes, yet he had pressed me back scarcely more than a couple of yards when his dancing blade slipped stealthily up my brown barrel, suddenly nipping the loose sleeve of my doublet. As it pricked into the cloth, scraping the skin of my forearm, I let the fellow have the end of the muzzle full in the side. It was not the best spot for such a thrust, nor could I give it proper force, yet I think it cracked a rib, from the way the Spaniard drew back, and the sudden pallor of his face; indeed, so ghastly white he got, I thought him done for, and lowered my barrel carelessly. He was more of a man than I had reckoned on, or else his pride made him averse to accepting defeat, for with one quick spring, like a wounded tiger, he was inside my guard, his ugly point rasping into me just beneath the shoulder. Saint Andrew! It was an awkward touch, especially as the tough steel held, the punctured flesh burning like fire; but fortunately the fellow was in too great pain himself to press his advantage, and, as we clinched and went down together, I chanced to be on top, throttling him with right good-will.

That which followed was but a small matter, yet I left him there, waiting the discovery of his comrades, in as comfortable a posture as possible, confident he could give no alarm. That Spaniard was a brave man, and I have ever had respect for such.