During the long evenings, as the loom of the weavers chided and the good wives turned the spinning-wheels, the men of the wood molded bright leaden bullets and measured black powder into curved horns. When the three-days’ rain began Bill Paisley went over to McTavish’s and stayed with Boy until the snows were licked away. All throughout Bushwhackers’ Place there surged a wave of unrest; a feeling of apprehension held the people, and they waited for what they felt must soon come. Hallibut, so they believed, had threatened to drive them from their rights. Behind him lay a power of which they knew little, but which they were prepared to combat if necessary with their lives. So during the rains that broke the manacles of winter the bushmen came together, strong-armed and clear of eye, strong of purpose and true to the great law that governed them. On one point they had unanimously agreed, and that was, no shot must be fired upon the interlopers until they themselves had opened hostilities. Big McTavish had urged this and was firm in his mandate.
“We’ll fight, men,” he said, his arm about his wife’s shoulder. “We’ll fight for our own, even if we be but a handful, but we’ll not fire first. Best to be sure than sorry.”
Now the men had met together again on what they seemed to feel was the eve of battle. The trails would be clear to-morrow and Hallibut and his followers would come very soon. So, throughout the night, with the soft rain falling and the forest waking beneath the kiss of spring, the Bushwhackers sat speaking in low tones before the fire in the big inner room, and the wives sat together discussing the probabilities of the coming conflict.
Big McTavish was for having all remain in their domain until the appearance of the enemy. Bill Paisley thought differently.
“What I advise,” he suggested, “is that we send out three men along the trail, and have ’em act as scouts. Let ’em keep to the timber, an’ when they see Hallibut and his men comin’, let ’em drop back and give the alarm. We’ll know best how to meet ’em when we know their numbers.”
Declute supported Paisley.
“I’ll go for one,” he volunteered, “and Peeler thar I know’ll go for another.”
“I’m with you,” nodded Peeler, and Boy sprang up.
“Let me go,” he begged; but the others shook their heads.
“You’re needed here,” they said, and Paisley drew Boy back into his seat again with: