The Doomsman | Page 3

as the
thunder of hoofs grew louder, he realized that his chance was of a
desperate smallness. If only he could gain a dozen seconds in which to
string his bow and fit an arrow.
But he could not make or save those longed-for moments; already he

had lost a good part of his original advantage, and the horseman was
barely sixty yards behind. His head felt as though it were about to split
in two; a cloud, shot with crimson stars, swam before his eyes.
The track swung suddenly to the right, in a sharp curve, and Constans's
heart bounded wildly; he had forgotten how close he must be to the
crossing of the Swiftwater. Now the rotting and worm-eaten timbers of
the open trestle-work were under his feet; mechanically, he avoided the
numerous gaps, where a misstep meant destruction, and so at last
gained the farther bank and sank down panting on the short, crisp
sward.
The cavalier reined in at the beginning of the trestle; he looked
doubtfully at the ford above the bridge; but the Swiftwater was in
spring flood, and, was the chase worth a wetting?
Evidently not, for, with a shrug of his shoulders, the horseman threw
one leg across the saddle-pommel and sat there, very much at his ease,
while he proceeded to roll himself a cigarette from coarse, black
tobacco and a leaf of dampened corn-husk.
Constans felt his face flush hotly as he noted the contempt implied in
his enemy's well-played indifference. Already he had put his bow in
order; now he stood up and, with some ostentation, proceeded to fit an
arrow to the string. The cavalier looked at these preparations with
entire calmness and busied himself again with his flint and steel.
"It would be murder," muttered Constans, irritably, and lowered his
hand. Then, moved by sudden impulse, he took aim anew and with
more than ordinary care. The arrow sung through the air and transfixed
the fleshy part of the cavalier's bridle-arm. The horse, whose withers
had been grazed by the shaft, started to rear, but his rider neither moved
nor changed color. Quieting the frightened animal with a reassuring
word, he deftly caught the tinder spark at the tip of his cigarette and
drew in a deep inhalation of the smoke. Then, with the utmost coolness,
he proceeded to snap the arrow-shaft in twain and draw out the barb,
Constans yielding him grudging admiration, for it was all very
perfectly done.

"Here is a man," thought Constans, and looked him over carefully.
And truly the cavalier made a gallant figure, dressed as he was in the
bravest raiment that the eyes of Constans had ever yet beheld. For his
close-fitting suit was of claret-colored velvet with gilt buttons, while
his throat-gear was a wonderfully fine lace jabot, with a great red jewel
fastened in the knot. A soft hat, trimmed with gold lace and an
ostrich-feather, covered his dark curls, while yellow gauntlets and high
riding-boots of polished leather completed his outward attire. Not an
unpleasing picture as he sat there in the sunshine astride the big
blood-bay, but Constans, looking upon him, knew that neither now nor
hereafter could there be any verity of peace between them. There is
such a thing as hate at first sight even as there is love.
The horseman had retained the feathered end of the arrow-shaft, and he
proceeded to examine it with an appearance of polite interest.
"Your private token, young sir?" he inquired, indicating the single
feather of scarlet. His voice was pitched in an affectedly high key, his
manner languidly ceremonious. Constans could only bow stiffly in the
affirmative.
"Ah, yes; it is one not to be easily forgotten. I, too, have my
sign-manual, and I should have been glad to have exchanged with you."
Again Constans bowed. He wanted to say something, but the words
would not come. The cavalier smiled.
"But there may be another opportunity later on," he continued. "At least,
we may hope so." He bowed, lifting his plumed hat. "To our future
acquaintance." He turned his horse's head to the southward, and rode
away at a slow canter without once looking back.
Constans watched the ostrich-crest as it rose and fell, until it was lost to
sight among the tree-trunks. Then, drawing his belt tight, he started on
a dog-trot in the contrary direction; the barrier, admitting him to the
protection of the stockade, was still some distance away, and he must
reach it without delay and give the warning. But, even as he ran, he

heard the tolling of a bell; it was the alarm that the Doomsmen were
abroad. Now, indeed, he must make haste or he would find the barrier
closed against himself.
Ten minutes later he stood before the northern entrance