When Trowley recovered consciousness, he was lying in his berth, with a bandage around his head. Kingswell looked in at him, smiling in a way that the old mariner was beginning to fear as well as hate. "I hope you are feeling more amiable since your sleep," said Kingswell. Trowley muttered a word or two of apology, damned the rum, and asked the time of day. His recollections of the argument in the cabin were hazy and fragmentary. In reply to his question the gentleman told him that the sun was well up, the fog cleared, and that he was having his boat provisioned for the coastwise exploration trip. "And mind you," he added, grimly, "that the eighty beaver skins which are now being stowed away in my berth are my property." "Certainly, sir," replied Trowley. "An' may "Yes, you may ask," replied Kingswell. He grinned at the wounded skipper for fully a minute, leaning on the edge of the bunk. Then he said: "I'll now bid you farewell until October. Don't sail without me, good Master Trowley, and look not upon the rum of the Indies when that same is red. A knife-thrust given in drunkenness might lead to the gallows." He turned and nimbly scaled the companion-ladder, leaving the shipmaster speechless with rage. Half an hour later the staunch little craft Pelican spread her square sail and slid away from the Heart of the West. She was manned by old Tom Bent, young Peter Harding, and Richard Clotworthy. Master Bernard Kingswell sat at the tiller, with Ouenwa beside him. Their provisions, extra clothing, arms, and ammunition were stowed amidships and covered with sail-cloth. The sun was bright, and the sky blue. The wind bowled them along at a clipping pace. From a mound above the harbour Black Feather gazed after them under a level hand. In the little harbour Trowley's ship alone swung in her anchorage. The others had run out to the fishing-grounds,—for in those days the fishing was done over the sides of the Ouenwa looked back, and then ahead, and felt a great misgiving. But Kingswell patted him on the shoulder, and the sailors nodded their heads at him and grinned. Soon they were among the fleet. The ungainly, high-sterned vessels rocked and bobbed under naked spars. The great business that had brought them so far was going forward. Along both sides of every ship were hung barrels, and in each barrel was stationed a man with two or more fishing-lines. Splashing desperately, the great fish were hauled up, unhooked, and tossed to the deck behind. As the little Pelican slid by, the fishers paused in their work to cheer her, and wave their caps. The masters shouted "God speed" from their narrow quarter-decks, and doffed their hats. Kingswell waved them gracious farewells; Ouenwa gazed spellbound toward the widening outlook; and Tom Bent trimmed the sail to a nicety. They passed headland after headland, rocky island after rocky island, cove after cove. The shores behind them turned from brown to purple, "A smart wench, sir," said Tom Bent to Master Kingswell. The commander nodded, and shifted the tiller knowingly. His blue eyes were flashing with the excitement of the speed and motion. His bright, pale hair streamed in the wind. He leaned forward, to pick out the course through a group of small islands that cluttered the bay ahead of them. He gave an order, and the seamen hauled on the wet sheet. But Ouenwa did not share the high spirits of his companions. A terrible, unknown feeling got hold of him. His dark cheeks lost their bloom. Kingswell glanced at him. "Let it go, lad," he said. "A sailor is made in this way. Tom, pass me along a blanket." With his unemployed hand he fixed a comfortable rest for the boy, and helped him to a drink of water. For an hour or more he maintained a hold on the young Beothic's belt, for, by this time, the soaring and sinking of the Pelican were enough to "The young un has it wicked, sir," he said. "Maybe, like as not, a swig o' rum ud sweeten his bilge, sir." Kingswell acted on the old tar's advice. The rank liquor completed the boy's breakdown. In so doing it served the purpose which Bent had intended. The sufferer was soon sleeping soundly, already half a sailor. When Ouenwa next took interest in his surroundings, the Pelican had the surf of a sheer coast close aboard on her port side. She was heading due north. The sun was half-way down his western slope. Behind the Pelican's bubbling wake, hills and headlands and high, naked barrens lay brown and purple and smoky blue. In front, and on the right hand, loomed surf-rimmed islands and flashed the innumerable, ever-altering yet unchanged hills and valleys of the deep. Tom Bent was now at the tiller, and Kingswell was in the bows, gazing intently at the austere coast. Ouenwa crawled over the thwarts and cargo of provisions, under the straining sail, and crouched beside him. About an hour before sunset the Pelican ran into a little cove, and her two grappling anchors were heaved overboard. She lay within five yards of the land-wash, swinging on an easy tide. Ouenwa sprang into the water and waded ashore. It was a dismal anchorage, with only a strip of shingle, and grim cliffs rising in front and on either hand. But at the base of the cliffs, in fissures of the rock, grew stunted spruce-trees and birches. Ouenwa soon found a little stream dribbling a zigzag course from the levels above. It gathered, clear and cold, in a shallow basin at the foot of the rock, and from there spilled over into the obliterating sand. By this time the others were ashore. Clotworthy hacked down a couple of armfuls of the spruce and birch shrubs with his cutlass, and started a fire. Then he filled a pot from the little well and commenced preparations for a meal. The other seamen erected a shelter, composed of a sail and three oars, against the cliff. Kingswell and Ouenwa sat on a convenient boulder, and the commander filled a long pipe with tobacco and lit it at a brand from the fire. He seemed in high spirits, and in a mood to further his young companion's education. "Boatswain," he said. Ouenwa mastered the word, as well as the term "able seamen," applied to Clotworthy and Peter Harding. By that time the stew was ready for them. They were all sound asleep, under their frail shelter, before the last glimmer of twilight was gone from the sky. It was very early when Ouenwa awoke. A pale flood of dawn illumined the tent and the recumbent forms of Master Kingswell and Clotworthy. Tom Bent and Harding were not in their places. The boy wondered at that, but was about to close his eyes again, when he was startled to his feet by a shrill cry that went ringing overhead and echoing along the cliffs. He darted from the tent, with Kingswell and Clotworthy hot on his heels. Bent and Harding were on the extreme edge of the beach, with their backs to the sea, staring upward. Ouenwa and the others turned their faces in the same direction. They were amazed to see about a dozen native warriors on the cliff above "We are at the salt water to take the fish," replied Wolf Slayer, "and we saw the smoke of your fire before the last darkness. But what do you with the great strangers, little Dreamer?" "They are my friends," replied Ouenwa, "and I am voyaging with them to learn wisdom." "What are you talking about?" asked Kingswell. The lad tried to explain. He pointed to the tent and provisions and then to the boat. "Put in," he said. At a word from Kingswell the three sailors quickly dismantled their night's shelter and carried the sail, the oars, and such food and blankets as they had brought ashore, out to the Pelican. At that the shrill cry rang out again, and echoed along the cliffs. "What does that mean?" inquired Kingswell. "Bad," replied Ouenwa, shortly. "What is in your fine canoe, little Dreamer?" called Wolf Slayer. "Our food and our clothing, little Fox Stabber," Ouenwa cried back, with indignation in his voice. "Your dreams must have unsettled your wits, my friend," replied Wolf Slayer, "or you would not talk so loud before a chief of the tribe." Just then, in answer to the cry that had sounded so dismally across the dawn a few moments before, five more warriors, armed with bows, appeared on the top of the cliff—for the cry was the hunting-call of the tribe. "Do you fish with war-bows?" shouted Ouenwa. "And why do you summon to trade with the cry of the hunt?" "You ask too many questions, even for a seeker of wisdom," replied the other youth, mockingly. "Does Soft Hand, the great bear, slumber, that the foxes bark with such assurance?" retorted Ouenwa. By this time the Pelican was ready to put out of the cove. Both anchors were up, and Harding and Clotworthy held her off with the oars. Old Tom Bent was also in the boat, busy with something beside the mast. Suddenly a bow-string twanged, and an arrow buried its flint head in the sand at Kingswell's feet. Another struck a stone "You speak of Soft Hand," it cried. "Know you, then, that Soft Hand set out on the Long Trail Quick and noiseless as a breath, the edge of the cliff was lined with warriors. Like a sudden flight of birds their arrows flashed outward and downward. "Lie down!" cried Kingswell. With a strong hand he snatched Ouenwa to the bottom of the boat. Harding and Clotworthy sprawled forward between the thwarts. Only Tom Bent, crouched beside the naked mast, did not move. The arrows thumped against plank and gunwale. They pierced the cargo. They glanced from tiller and sweep and mast. One, turning from the rail, struck Bent on the shoulder. He cursed angrily, but did not look for the wound. His match was burning with a thread of blue smoke and a spark of red fire. His "Steady her," he said, softly. "She's driftin' in." Kingswell sprang forward to one of the oars, thrust it to the bottom, and held the boat as steady as might be. Arrows whispered around him. He shouted a challenge to the befeathered warriors above him. Tom touched the slow-match to the quick fuse. Something hissed and sizzled. A plume of smoke darted up. Then, with a rebound that shook the boat from stem to stern, the gun hurled forth its lead, and fire, and black breath of hate. "Double charge, sir," gasped Tom Bent, from where he sagged against the mast. The kick of his musket had hurt him more than the blow from the arrow. Again the Pelican fought her way toward the open waters, with Harding and Clotworthy pulling lustily at the sweeps. Kingswell, flushed and joyful, sat at the tiller and headed her for the channel, through which the tide was running landward at a fair pace. Bent was busy reloading his firearm. Ouenwa stood in the stern-sheets, with his bow in his left hand and an arrow on the string. A "One more red devil for hell," muttered the boatswain. "I learned mun to shoot his pesky sticks at a Bristol gentleman." As if in answer, an arrow bit a splinter from the mast, not six inches from the old man's head. Ouenwa's bow bent, and sprang straight. The shaft flew with all the skill that Montaw had taught the boy, and with all the hate that was in his heart for the big murderer on the cliff. Every man of the little company narrowed his eyes to follow the flight of it. They saw it curve. They saw a warrior drop his bow from his menacing hand and sink to his knees. "The wolf falls," cried Ouenwa, in his own tongue. "The wolf bites the moss. Who, now, is the wolf slayer?" The Englishmen cheered again and again, and the good boat Pelican, urged forward by triumphant sinews, won through the channel and swam into the outer waters. |