Part 41 (2/2)

I nodded.

”And so,” he continued pleasantly, ”I send you to Thendara. None knows you for a partizan in this war. For four years you have been lost to sight; and if any Iroquois has heard of your living in New York, he must believe you to be a King's man. Your one danger is in answering the Iroquois summons as an ensign of a nation marked for punishment.

How great that danger may be, you can judge better than I.”

I thought for a while. The Canienga who had summoned me by belt could not prove I was a partizan of the riflemen who escorted me. I might have been absolutely non-partizan, traveling under escort of either side that promised protection from those ghostly rovers who scalped first and asked questions afterward.

The danger I ran as clan-ensign of a nation marked for punishment was an unknown quant.i.ty to me. From the Canienga belt-bearer I had gathered that there was no sanctuary for an Oneida envoy at Thendara; but what protection an ensign of the Wolf Clan might expect, I could not be certain of.

But there was one more danger. Suppose Walter Butler should appear to sit in council as ensign of his mongrel clan?

”Colonel,” I said, ”there is one thing to be done, and, as there is n.o.body else to accomplish this dog's work, I must perform it. I am trying not to be selfish--not to envy those whose lines are fallen in pleasant places--not to regret the happiness of battle which I have never known--not to desire those chances for advancement and for glory that--that all young men--crave----”

My voice broke, but I steadied it instantly.

”I had hoped one day to do a service which his Excellency could openly acknowledge--a service which might, one day, permit him to receive me.

I have never seen him. I think, now, I never shall. But, as you say, sir, ambitions like these are selfish, therefore they are petty and unworthy. He does know best.”

The Colonel nodded gravely, watching me, his unlighted pipe drooping in his hand.

”There is one thing--before I go,” I said. ”My betrothed wife is with me. May I leave her in your care, sir?”

”Yes, Carus.”

”She is asleep in that room above--” I looked up at the closed shutters, scarcely seeing them for the blinding rush of tears; yet stared steadily till my eyes were dry and hot again, and my choked and tense throat relaxed.

”I think,” said the Colonel, ”that she is safer in Johnstown Fort than anywhere else just now. I promise you, Carus, to guard and cherish her as though she were my own child. I may be called away--you understand that!--but I mean to hold Johnstown Fort, and shall never be too far from Johnstown to relieve it in event of siege. What can be done I will do on my honor as a soldier. Are you content?”

”Yes.”

He lowered his voice: ”Is it best to see her before you start?”

I shook my head.

”Then pick your Oneida,” he muttered. ”Which one?”

”Little Otter. Send for him.”

The Colonel leaned back on the bench and tapped at the outside of the tavern window. An aide came clanking out, and presently hurried away with a message to Little Otter to meet me at Butlersbury within the hour, carrying parched corn and salt for three days' rations.

For a while we sat there, going over personal matters. Our sea-chests were to be taken to the fort; my financial affairs I explained, telling him where he might find my papers in case of accident to me. Then I turned over to him my watch, what money I had of Elsin's, and my own.

”If I do not return,” I said, ”and if this frontier can not hold out, send Miss Grey with a flag to New York. Sir Peter Coleville is kin to her; and when he understands what danger menaces her he will defend her to the last ditch o' the law. Do you understand, Colonel?”

”No, Carus, but I can obey.”

”Then remember this: She must never be at the mercy of Walter Butler.”

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