One was true, of course, and somewhat disheartening to Cyrus; the other, as discomforting, but not true. It was simply a case of mistaken identity, his own disappearance being confounded with that of his brother.
This story served the purpose of so affecting Cyrus that he resolved never to set foot in either Christmas Cove or Bayport, and also never to allow any one there to know that he was alive.
From now on, also, he deserted the sea and became a wanderer. He first lived in the wilderness, where as trapper and hunter and lumberman he learned the woodsman’s habits; and when mid-life was reached, having become sceptical of all things, he finally settled down at Greenvale. Here, loving children and the woods, fields, brooks, and Nature more than raiment, religion, and respectability, he became a village nondescript, a social outcast, and–Old Cy Walker.
CHAPTER VIII
“The poor ’n’ pious kin callate the crumbs fallin’ from the rich man’s table’ll be few ’n’ skimpy.”–Old Cy Walker.
An enemy we can meet in the open need not appall us; but an enemy who creeps up to us by day, or still worse by night, in a vast wilderness, becomes a panther and an Indian combined.
Such a one had spied upon Martin’s camp that night, and all the tales of this half-breed’s cunning and fierce nature, told by Levi, were now recalled. Like a human brute whose fangs were tobacco-stained, whose one evil eye glared at them out of darkness, the half-breed had now become a creeping, crawling beast, impossible to trail, yet certain to bide his time, seize Chip, or avenge her loss upon her protectors.
Now another complication arose as Martin, Old Cy, and Levi left the spot where this enemy had watched them–what to do about Angie and the girl? From the first warning from Levi that they were in danger from the half-breed, Martin had avoided all hint of it to them. Now they must be told, and all peace of mind at once destroyed. Concealment was no longer possible, however, and when Angie was told, her face paled. Her first intuition, and as the sequel proved, a wise one, was for them to at once pack up and quit the woods as speedily as possible.
But Martin was of different fibre. To run away like this was cowardly, and besides he cherished only contempt for a wretch who had played the rôle of this fellow, and was so vile of instinct. With no desire to do wrong, he yet felt that if sufficient provocation and the need of self-defence arose, the earth, and especially this wilderness, would be well rid of such a despicable creature.