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It had occurred to him that it took a man of real brain to be a perfect "damn fool." The inspiration of his thought was undoubtedly Steve Allenwood. Steve Allenwood and his affairs had occupied his thoughts all the morning, and had interfered with a due appreciation of the dinner he had just eaten. He was perturbed, and Millie had set the match to the powder train of his emotions and energies.
His vision was suddenly swept away by a sound which came from somewhere along the trail in the direction of Deadwater. There was a faint, indistinct blur of voices. There was also the rattle of wheels, and the sharp clip of horses' hoofs upon the hard-beaten road. He instinctively turned his head in the direction. And as he did so Steve Allenwood stood up.
The depths of the primeval forest were alive with sound, those sounds which are calculated to set the human pulse athrob. Steve Allenwood crouched over the fire. He was still, silent, and he squatted with his hands locked about his knees. The fitful firelight only served to emphasize the intensity of surrounding darkness.
Steve had recognized the man's outfit. The brown tunic and side-arms, the prairie hat, and the glimpse of a broad yellow stripe on the side of the riding breeches just where the man's leather chapps terminated on his hips. These things were all sufficient. "Sure." "Inspector Allenwood, sir?" The man's abrupt tone had changed to respectful inquiry. "I'm your man, Corporal."
His thoughts had flown to Steve Allenwood, and from him they had passed on to another. A vision of a sweet face with deep, violet eyes, and softly waving fair hair had leapt to his mind. Furthermore he still retained the sensation of a soft, warm hand which had been clasped within his under cover of the friendly fur robe as he drove the wagon back from the dance at Deadwater. Two years.
And something of the general opinion found expression in Superintendent McDowell's remarks to his subordinate, who filled the office of acting-adjutant. "It seems to me, Syme, we needn't have worried a thing," he said. "Allenwood isn't the feller to get up and shout any time. He's the sort of boy to take a punch and come up for more.
It carried him back over a thousand miles of territory and weary toil to a memory of other infant arms and other infant caresses. "'Es. I likes you," the boy observed as they moved on. "Who's you?" Half confidences were evidently not in his calculation. He had readily given his, and now he looked for the natural return. Steve laughed delightedly. "Who's I? Why, my name's Steve. Steve Allenwood.
It was unrecognizable. But that which stirred him to the depths of his soul, and flooded his heart with something like panic, was the signature at the bottom of it. It was Steve's Steve Allenwood. The perusal of that letter was the work of a few moments. And throughout the reading Ross was aware painfully aware of the aggravating calm of the man who had written it.
Steve Allenwood glanced up from the envelope he had just received. "Sure. Best cut through the bluff. There's a trail straight through brings you to his house. It's mostly a mile and a half. Say, you'll need supper. Get right along back when you've finished with him. When did you start out?" "Yesterday morning, sir." The Inspector whistled. "Fifty miles a day. You travelled some."
For all the distinction of the police officer's rank and his white man's learning, for all the Indians were dark-skinned, uncultured products of the great white outlands, they were three friends held by bonds which only the hearts of real men could weld. The territory over which Steve Allenwood exercised his police control was well-nigh limitless from a "one-man" point of view.
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