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Updated: August 22, 2024
Dade's riata, tight as a fiddle-string at first, slackened as the buckskin, his breath coming in snorts, surged alongside. Jack leaned again this time to snatch the ivory-handled revolver from the holster on Dade's saddle.
"But they insult the Señor Allen with their jeers," he protested. "Me, I fight always for my friends who are not present to fight for themselves. Would not the Señor Allen fight this fool who flouts him so?" "No!" Dade's eyes flicked the circle of faces upon which the firelight danced. "If the Señor Allen were here, there would be no jeering." "And for that will I fight them all!"
Dade drunk and full of coarse foolery was a sight he had never before looked upon; but Dade's presence, drunk or sober, made his own plight seem a shade less hopeless. He did not dare a second glance, with Davis and the Captain walking at either stirrup; but he listened anxiously listened and caught a drunken mumble from the rear, and a chorus of chuckling laughs coming after. He looked ahead.
They knew the information to be reliable, for they obtained it from Dade's guide, Louis, a slave, who was in sympathy with the Indians and Maroons. On the third day of their march the troops reached the point the Indians had decided upon as best adapted to their purpose. But neither Micanopy nor Osceola was present and many were unwilling to act without them.
The tidings of the slaughter at Fort King had not become generally known and the Indians had not slept after Dade's massacre, before preparations were afoot for another assault. Scarcely had the victors wearied of shouting and dancing when an Indian, exhausted, not with revelry, but with swift running through forest and swamp, came into the camp, bringing important news.
Never mind the details, and the facts concerning the precise nature of our little difficulty wouldn't interest you; but we got into a high old scrape, and were both expelled from school. When I found Dade's old man was going to send him to Wyndham, I put it up to my sire to let me go there also, but he got wise and chose this corner of the map for mine. You know, he came from here originally."
Then he retreated to the far end of the bar, from whence he tried to appear unconcerned. Dade finished his drink and set the glass down. But he was visibly excited. "Betty Clayton," he said, looking sharply at Calumet. "Has she got a granddad named Malcolm Clayton, an' a brother Bob?" "That's her." Calumet returned Dade's sharp glance. "What's eatin' you? Know her? Know Bob? Know Malcolm?"
The man sat down before him, and on those wonderful black eyes the light fell fairly. The strange man began to talk in that low, soothing voice of his. He talked as had Harrigan of mines, and railroads, and great projects. His voice had an accent that was pleasant to hear, and at times the formation of his sentences was peculiar. All the while, as he talked, he looked steadily into Dade's eyes.
It was not until Dade rose to return to camp for the night that José put the question that had tickled the tongue of him ever since the arrival on his ranch of the Picardo vaqueros. "Your friend, the Señor Allen he is to join you later, perhaps?" "Jack was left to look after the ranch." Dade's eyes were level in their glance, his voice quiet with the convincing ring of truth.
Until he saw her talking with Dade he had been able to see nothing in her manner but restraint and stiff formality, but figuratively, when in Dade's presence she seemed to melt she was gracious, smiling, cordial. Betty's attitude toward him during the noon meal puzzled him much. Some subtle change had come over her.
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