Wings of the Wind

by Credo Fitch Harris

With the approach of evening a curious calm came over me. Perhaps it was the nearness of action, perhaps because I had accustomed myself to the thought that before another dawn I must deliberately slip upon a fellow man and destroy him. In France, with a battle raging, men lost their identity, and if—or when—we killed one, we rarely knew it. But in this peaceful country it seemed a more murderous thing to do. Yet perhaps the truest reason why my nerves had turned to steel was the dominating thought of Sylvia.

Twice I rehearsed before Smilax what I was to do. I stood apart and called: "Post One, nine o'clock, and all's-er-well!" to let him judge if my voice differed materially from the one we heard last night. This was most important, as the suspicion of the guard at post Three must not be aroused. I then called the next post in an altered voice, and felt well pleased when Smilax said the tones were near enough to pass.

It was an uncanny rehearsal, this imitating the voices of those whom we should have made forever silent, but if there existed anywhere on earth a justification for the taking of human life it rested with Smilax and me. We were not killers, but defenders; we did not go so much to destroy as to save. Our way was the only way to rescue a helpless girl and a faithful old woman from destruction. Two men, or two hundred, made no difference now; I would kill all, or any number, who stood in the way of that beloved girl's safety.

We looked over our firearms. I had given him Tommy's "l'il crack-crack" which, with my own, were the only weapons we intended to take—I mean the only explosive weapons, for Smilax carried his long, keen-edged hunting knife, a thing he was never without; and I, likewise, strapped on my own. After this we went about putting the camp in order; building a shelter tent by the spring for Sylvia and an adjacent lean-to for Echochee. Joyfully I robbed myself of bedding, arranged comfortable shake-downs with moss and leaves of the cabbage palm, and did everything conceivable to make the place attractive.

I had demurred at first about coming back here for a day or two; wanting, instead, to travel as speedily as possible to Big Cove, where the Whim—and if not the Whim, at least the Orchid—would be at our disposal. But he showed me the futility of this. In the first place, that was exactly what Efaw Kotee would be suspecting when the escape became known. The dead sentries, certain to be discovered when they failed to call the next half hour, would reveal the story of outside help, so the pursuit would be swift and directly up the coast—swifter, indeed, than she might be able to travel.

"Why shouldn't they think we'd taken her off in a small boat," I asked, "and escaped through the islands?"

"Then Efaw Kotee want to know why kill guard on mainland."

"That's so. But, Smilax, suppose we hide the guards?"

He thought a moment over this, but finally shook his head.

"No good. Then Efaw Kotee say guard run off with Lady, so he come back 'cross prairie same as up and down shore. That make our chance ve'y bad. No. They find men dead, then hunt quick through forest up beach; maybe down beach. After 'while, maybe they find sign where me and you camp in L'il Cove; then they know small boat been there and gone. Then they come home mad, and when all quiet we make big circle to Whim. Some day we come back; maybe kill 'em all. Me want Jess; him crack Smilax head. That good plan; you smoke."