“I like the old man because he thinks he knows you,” he murmured, “—just because he thinks he knows you, Phoebe.”
His head dropped and he strode toward the door.
“I don’t know why I should not teach those Bushwhackers a lesson!” he ejaculated.
He turned and let his frowning eyes rest on the painting, and as he gazed his face softened. The big eyes seemed to be pleading with him.
“Maybe there really is a girl who looks like you, Phoebe,” he said gently; “a little girl of the Wild that looks like you.”
And the face smiled on him as he passed out through the doorway.
CHAPTER XIII
On the Creek Path
It was early twilight when the old Indian once again reached Bushwhackers’ Place. All day he had kept to the trail, jogging along without a mouthful to eat, simply tightening his belt when hunger gnawed at his stomach. It was a long journey from Rond Eau Point to St. Thomas, and over rough ground—a very long journey for a man of Noah’s age to attempt. But he was an Indian and his years did not weigh him down. His sinews were tough like the seasoned hickory fiber, and his spirit was young like the spirit of the great shadowed woodland. Age counted for naught where life derived its strength from its environment.
To the old man Gloss was a star that had loosened itself from some strange firmament and strayed into the green uplands. He had watched her grow from a slender girl into a graceful creature with beauty that nothing of the woodland could match. One with eyes that held all the lights that ever shone on lake or wood, and life that bubbled and laughed and defied.
For her and her protectors Noah had undertaken the trying mission of visiting the rich man Hallibut, and advising him to leave the men of the hardwoods alone.