But he had not spent all his time in that labyrinth, nor had he passed southward in it beyond the point where his “catamount girl” had first cried to him in the night for help. Then she had been coming toward him from the south, and he felt that in that direction was her little secret dream-cave, and that not far from it the fugitive Steve now was hiding. Her secret should remain her own; he did not wish even to blunder into it by chance. Instead, he turned his errant steps in other directions.
Down the Clove road he had gone, visiting the Clove itself—a flat-bottomed valley through which the Kill meandered, and where old stone houses hinted at the Indian days when every settler’s home must be his fortress. Along the way, and in the Clove, he had met men who stared with unmasked interest, answered slowly and briefly when addressed, showed neither friendliness nor hostility, but seemed relieved when he moved on. Only one had asked him a question, and that query was direct and personal.
“Ye’re Hammerless Hampton, ain’t ye?”
“My name’s Hampton,” he had answered. “Why the Hammerless?”
A slow nod toward his hammerless gun had revealed the reason for his new name. When he in turn began asking questions the man had moved away.
Now, ending his meal and dipping up a measure of water in his tin cup, Hammerless Hampton smiled at the memory.
“I’m getting to be a sort of desperado,” he mused. “That nickname sounds like Bowie Bill, or Derringer Dick, or Six-gun Sam—h’m! or like Snake Sanders. Hope the citizenry hereabouts doesn’t classify me along with that reptile. I let him think, before I punched him, that I was dodging the law, and maybe he’s spread the idea around. I’d give a big shiny quarter to know just what I’m supposed to be. I know I’m a goat, but am I a black one or a white one or a spotted one?”
Downing the drink, he refilled his cup and set it beside him on the stone while he loaded his pipe. Then he looked at his watch.
“Guess I’ll move in a few minutes,” he decided. “I believe the schoolhouse is up yonder at the corner, and the youngsters will be out soon and chasing down here, maybe. But I’ve time for a smoke first.”
He glanced along up-stream, under the bridge, as he lit his pipe. Up that way led an unkempt road debouching from the sandy track leading across the bridge, and he decided to follow it part of the way. Then his eyes lifted, and as they rested on the railing above him they widened.