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Kittering had a way of inspiring confidence, but in the short, silent ride of two miles the captain began to have his doubts. The scout badge might have been stolen; Canadians often pass for Americans, etc. At length they stopped the sleigh, and Rolf led into the woods. Before a hundred yards the officer said, "Stop," and Rolf stopped to find a pistol pointed at his head.
There was another face that Rolf recognized hollow-cheeked, flabby-jowled and purplish-gray. The man was one of the oldest of the prisoners. He wore a white beard end moustache. He did not recognize Rolf, but Rolf knew him, for this was Micky Kittering. How he escaped from jail and joined the enemy was an episode of the war's first year.
He took the first chance of wispering to Rolf, "Can't you send him away? I'll be all right with you." Rolf said nothing. "Say," he continued, "say, young feller, what's yer name?" "Rolf Kittering." "Say, Rolf, you wait a week or ten days, and the ice 'll be out; then I'll be fit to travel. There ain't on'y a few carries between here an' Lyons Falls."
He stopped when he saw the Indian, stared contemptuously at the quarry of the morning chase, made a scornful remark about "rat-eater," and went on toward the wigwam, probably to peer in, but the Indian's slow, clear, "keep away!" changed his plan. He grumbled something about "copper-coloured tramp," and started away in the direction of the nearest farmhouse. Rolf Kittering and the Soldier Uncle
"Air ye a half-breed?" "No, I'm a Yank; my name is Kittering; born and bred in Redding, Connecticut." "Well, I swan, ye look it. "Here, Bill, this is Rolf, Rolf Kittering, he'll go with ye to Albany." Bill, a loose-jointed, middle-aged, flat-footed, large-handed, semi-loafer, with keen gray eyes, looked up from a bundle he was roping.
After an hour he came to Dumpling Pond, then set out for his home, straight through the woods, till he reached the Catrock line, and following that came to the farm and ramshackle house of Micky Kittering. He had been told that the man at this farm had a fresh deer hide for sale, and hoping to secure it, Quonab walked up toward the house. Micky was coming from the barn when he saw the Indian.
"Rolf Kittering," he whispered, "the place is surrounded by soldiers; can't you hide me?" Could she? Imagine an American woman saying "No" at such a time. He slipped in quietly. "What news?" she said. "They say that MacDonough has won on the Lake, but Plattsburg is taken." "No, indeed; Plattsburgh is safe; MacDonough has captured the fleet.
The harrying of the flying rear-guard, the ambuscade over the hill, the appearance of an American scout at the nick of time to warn them the shooting, and his disappearance all were discussed. Then rollicking Seymour and silent Fiske told of their scouting on the trail of the beaten foe; and all asked, "Where is Kittering?"
After a brief rest he was sent across country on snowshoes to bear a reassuring message to Ogdensburg. The weather was much colder now, and the single blanket bed was dangerously slight; so "Flying Kittering," as they named him, took a toboggan and secured Quonab as his running mate. Skookum was given into safe keeping.
Face, head, neck, and hands were all at first intended, but Rolf said, "May as well do the whole thing." So he stripped off; the yellow brown juice on his white skin turned it a rich copper colour, and he was changed into an Indian lad that none would have taken for Rolf Kittering. The stains soon dried, and Rolf, re-clothed, felt that already he had burned a bridge.
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