The Masters of the Peaks | Page 4

Great Bear would evade the answer, and the lad thought too much of
the man who had long stood to him in the place of father to cause him
annoyance. Beyond a doubt Willet had his interests at heart, and, when
the time came for him to speak, speak he would, but not before.
His mind passed from the subject to dwell upon the task they had set
for themselves, a thought which did not exclude St. Luc, though the
chevalier now appeared in the guise of a bold and skillful foe, with
whom they must match their wisdom and courage. Doubtless he had
formed a new band, and, at the head of it, was already roaming the
country south of the St. Lawrence. Well, if that were the case perhaps
they would meet once more, and he would have given much to
penetrate the future.
"Why don't you go to sleep, Robert?" asked the hunter.
"For the best of reasons. Because I can't," replied the lad.
"Perhaps it's well to stay awake," said the Onondaga gravely.
"Why, Tayoga?"
"Someone comes."
"Here in the ravine?"

"No, not in the ravine but on the cliff opposite us."
Robert strained both eye and ear, but he could neither see nor hear any
human being. The wall on the far side of the ravine rose to a
considerable height, its edge making a black line against the sky, but
nothing there moved.
"Your fancy is too much for you, Tayoga," he said. "Thinking that
someone might come, it creates a man out of air and mist."
"No, Dagaeoga, my fancy sleeps. Instead, my ear, which speaks only
the truth, tells me a man is walking along the crest of the cliff, and
coming on a course parallel with our ravine. My eye does not yet see
him, but soon it will confirm what my ear has already told me. This
deep cleft acts as a trumpet and brings the sound to me."
"How far away, then, would you say is this being, who, I fear, is
mythical?"
"He is not mythical. He is reality. He is yet about three hundred yards
distant. I might not have heard him, even with the aid of the cleft, but
tonight Areskoui has given uncommon power to my ear, perhaps to aid
us, and I know he is walking among thick bushes. I can hear the
branches swish as they fly back into place, after his body has passed.
Ah, a small stick popped as it broke under his foot!"
"I heard nothing."
"That is not my fault, O Dagaeoga. It is a heavy man, because I now
hear his footsteps, even when they do not break anything. He walks
with some uncertainty. Perhaps he fears lest he should make a false step,
and tumble into the ravine."
"Since you can tell so much through hearing, at such a great distance,
perhaps you know what kind of a man the stranger is. A warrior, I
suppose?"
"No, he is not of our race. He would not walk so heavily. It is a white

man."
"One of Rogers' rangers, then? Or maybe it is Rogers himself, or
perhaps Black Rifle."
"It is none of those. They would advance with less noise. It is one not
so much used to the forest, but who knows the way, nevertheless, and
who doubtless has gone by this trail before."
"Then it must be a Frenchman!"
"I think so too."
"It won't be St. Luc?"
"No, Dagaeoga, though your tone showed that for a moment you hoped
it was. Sharp Sword is too skillful in the forest to walk with so heavy a
step. Nor can it be either of the leaders, De Courcelles or Jumonville.
They also are too much at home in the woods. The right name of the
man forms itself on my lips, but I will wait to be sure. In another
minute he will enter the bare space almost opposite us and then we can
see."
The three waited in silence. Although Robert had expressed doubt he
felt none. He had a supreme belief in the Onondaga's uncanny powers,
and he was quite sure that a man was moving upon the bluff. A stranger
at such a time was to be watched, because white men came but little
into this dangerous wilderness.
A dark figure appeared within the prescribed minute upon the crest and
stopped there, as if the man, whoever he might be, wished to rest and
draw fresh breath. The sky had lightened and he was outlined clearly
against it. Robert gazed intently and then he uttered a little cry.
"I know him!" he said. "I can't be mistaken. It's Achille Garay, the one
whose name we found written on a fragment of a letter in Albany."