Part 2 (1/2)

Then he undid the bandages.

”What is all that?” asked Boyd harshly.

”The seal of the marauders, sir.”

”They burnt you? G.o.d, man, you are but one living sore! Did any white man do that to you?”

”With hot horse-shoes. It will never quite heal, they say.”

I saw the lieutenant shudder. The only thing he ever feared was fire--if it could be said of him that he feared anything. And he had told me that, were he taken by the Iroquois, he had a pistol always ready to blow out his brains.

Boyd had begun to pace the room, doubling and undoubling his nervous fingers. The landlord replaced the oil-soaked rags, rolled down his sleeves again, and silently awaited our pleasure.

”Why do you hesitate to tell us where we may find Major Lockwood?” I asked gently.

For the first time the man looked me full in the face. And after a moment I saw his expression alter, as though some spark--something already half dead within him was faintly reviving.

”They have set a price on Major Lockwood's head,” he said; and Boyd halted to listen--and the man looked him in the eyes for a moment.

My lieutenant carried his commission with him, though contrary to advice and practice among men engaged on such a mission as were we. It was folded in his beaded shot-pouch, and now he drew it out and displayed it.

After a silence, Hays said:

”The old Lockwood Manor House stands on the south side of the village of Poundridge. It is the headquarters and rendezvous of Sheldon's Horse. The Major is there.”

”Poundridge lies to the east of Bedford?”

”Yes, sir, about five miles.”

”Where is the map, Loskiel?”

Again I drew it from my hunting s.h.i.+rt; we examined it, and Hays pointed out the two routes.

Boyd looked up at Hays absently, and said: ”Do you know Luther Kinnicut?”

This time all the colour fled the man's face, and it was some moments before the sudden, unreasoning rush of terror in that bruised mind had subsided sufficiently for him to compose his thoughts. Little by little, however, he came to himself again, dimly conscious that he trusted us--perhaps the first strangers or even neighbours whom he had trusted in years.

”Yes, sir, I know him,” he said in a low voice.

”Where is he?”

”Below--on our service.”

But it was Luther Kinnicut, the spy, whom we had come to interview, as well as to see Major Lockwood, and Boyd frowned thoughtfully.

I said: ”The Indians hereabout are Mohican, are they not, Mr. Hays?”

”They were,” he replied; and his very apathy gave the answer a sadder significance.

”Have they all gone off?” asked Boyd, misunderstanding.