Wings of the Wind

by Credo Fitch Harris

Then, as the light increased and the mist began to dissolve, I swept the prairie in all directions for a sign of enemies. Everywhere was peace.

Assured that Efaw Kotee would never find us here I turned and went to my lean-to—to the place my lean-to had been before we moved it beside the spring—gathered up my knick-knacks and repaired to the pool, emerging half an hour later a more presentable man. After this I built a small fire of buttonwood and set about preparing breakfast.

But this proved to be a perplexing ordeal. Bilkins had packed in a lot of stuff that he might have manipulated, though to me it was worse than Greek. Of course, I could cook up coffee and bacon—the kind of meal Smilax and I were used to—but Sylvia must never be subjected to that! And it would be insane of me to go out on the prairie after snipe! There was nothing for it but prepare a dainty concoction from what we had, so, wishing heartily that Bilkins had come off in the small boat with me, I dived into our stores on a tour of inspection.

Tea!—who wanted tea for breakfast! A pot of butter!—appropriate enough, though it might have been fresher. A can of beans!—worse than tea. A can of finnan haddie came after this, and several cans that only Bilkins could have understood. But in the end I carried a number of them to the fire and had a general opening, arranged them in a row, and began to cook. The chief trouble was that I did not know which should be done thoroughly and which merely warmed up. Anyway, I emptied something, inviting if unpronounceable, into the skillet and as it began to sizzle it smelt really good. So I crouched lower, stirring vigorously to keep it from scorching, and thought of the surprise it would be to her—for, to be quite frank, it was a surprise to me!

Then a voice at my back, making me forget the sizzling stuff, the fire, the breakfast, said with a note of extreme anxiety:

"Good morning, Jackachobee! Oughtn't Echochee be here by this time? You don't think any thing's happened to her, do you? I can't whistle like a plover and had to come to breakfast unannounced. I hope it's ready. You've seen nothing of those men?"

I did not move under this rapid fire of questions and statements. To the contrary, I lowered my head and was afraid to move; afraid to face the rebuke, or the fear, or whatever it would be, that might naturally follow her discovery of my deception. But more potent than this dread was the thrill of joy I felt in knowing that she stood close behind me; that when I turned I should see her there, face to face. Yet the very thought of turning again started the chill of apprehension. Without doubt she would wither me like a parched leaf for having played so silly a part as Indian. I began vigorously to stir the stuff in my skillet which now had stuck to the bottom and was smelling like the very old devil. Of course, my face would have been red, anyway—leaning over the fire as I was!

"Are you keeping anything from me?" she cried, I thought on the verge of "nerves," so hesitating no longer I arose and turned to her.

"Oh!" she gasped, drawing back and putting one hand to her breast—while the other, I noticed, fell mechanically to the butt of a revolver swung to her waist. Her eyes were wide with surprise, as her lips were parted in fear and utter wonderment. Truly, she was the incarnation of girlhood standing at bay!

I had known her beauty; I had been astounded by it in the Havana café, in my dream, in the little kodak film of Monsieur's, and last, when she stood in her doorway less than forty-eight hours before. But here was something that transcended all that I had previously seen in her. Perhaps the young sun, golden in the morning atmosphere, cast the spell as it sought out spun-copper strands amongst her waves of hair; perhaps the days of anxiety, terminating in a night of unfearful sleep, had put the dew, the mystery, in her eyes; or it may have been the color, smouldering beneath the attractive tan on her cheeks and tinting her pure throat, that held me charmed; or the indefinable spirit of wildness that showed through a natural poise. I saw, too, in a hazy kind of way, a most bewitching costume—at least, admirably suited to her: a waist of olive-drab, not unlike our service shirts but of delicate material, open at the throat and fitting her snugly; quite a short skirt to match, and laced tan boots.