His dress was a habit. He wore it unconsciously. But the sword on his hip—that was another matter!
His lean and practised hand, a bit shaky with his seventy-six years, grew steady and as firm as youth when it swung to position and clasped that hilt. His faithful blade was his best companion.
The deep red of oak, the scarlet of sumac, the yellow of maple, the brown of beech, every color of frost-kissed October mingled in the background and was reflected on the borders of the opal river whose shining length formed the waterway to the outside world.
The little town was all astir. It was a gala day. Banners fluttered at the door of each cozy cabin, and from the tall pole of the old wooden fort of St. Vincent swung the American flag, almost ready for the sunset gun.
On the river, rafts and flatboats, rowboats and small sail moved about and fell into position to make way for a procession of canoes coming down the stream.
The folk of the town, big and little, hurried to the water's edge, waving their arms in welcome and shouting until they were hoarse.
But the man on the bluff kept his high position and his attitude of martial waiting. Under his heavy white brows, his sharp black eyes grew large and tender, for in the distant canoes were his children—his careless, happy children—coming home to him, as they had done twice every year since the old days when he had begun to buy their furs of them. Younger business men now held the fur trade in their own hands, but the voyageurs continued their practice of holiday regatta to greet this white-haired man.
Obadiah Holman, hastening into town, far ahead of his father and mother, was decked in his buckskin. With rifle on shoulder and knife in belt and hound at heel, he walked on air. For he looked like a man, he felt like a man, and he was a man—almost!
More than satisfied with himself, he whistled as he strode, until he came to the person in velvet. Then his vanity dropped to his feet and was whisked away.
Here was one more elegantly attired than he had ever beheld a mortal.