The party then separated for the present, most of them hurrying to the nearest tavern stands to refresh thirsts made deeper by the sharp, fine air on the river. Abram Antoine stood undecided, one hand resting on the trunk of the historic Mulberry, a crowd of small boys watching him open-mouthed and wide-eyed, at a respectful distance.
Pretty soon he was accosted by a very old, white-bearded Dutchman, with a strip of soiled gray silk on the lapel of his coat, which indicated that he was a veteran of the Royal American Regiment of Riflemen that had figured at Fort Duquesne in 1758. Abram Antoine had seen many such veterans in and about Pittsburg, and held out his hand to the aged military man. The old soldier signalled with his cane that the Indian come and sit with him on a nearby bench, which he did, and they passed an hour pleasantly together.
The conversation turned principally to soldiering, and then to firearms, and all the ancient makes of rifles were discussed, and their merits and demerits compared. The veteran allowed that the best rifle he had ever owned was of Spanish make, the kind carried by the Highlanders in the campaigns of 1758 and 1763; it was of slim barrel, light and easily handled, and unerring if used by a person of tolerable accuracy.
There was one gunsmith in the alley over yonder, a veteran of the Revolution, named Adam Dunwicke, who made a rifle close to the early Spanish pattern. It was the best firearm being turned out in the State of Pennsylvania. The gunsmith, anyhow, was a man worth knowing, as his shop was filled with arms of many makes and periods, and he liked to talk with any one who was an enthusiast on guns.
Abram Antoine was fired by what the veteran told him, and as it was still early in the afternoon, asked if he would escort him thither. It would be fine if he could get an extra good rifle as a souvenir of his ill-starred trip to Mount Vernon. The old man had too much time on his hands as it was, and was only too glad to pilot the redman to the workshop. They made a unique looking pair together, the old soldier, bent and hobbling along on his staff, the Indian, tall, erect, and in the prime of life. Their high, aquiline noses, with piercing, deep-set eyes, were their sole points of physical similarity.
When they reached the gunshop, in the dark, narrow alley that ran out from Front Street, the veteran banged the grimy knocker, and it was almost instantly opened by Dunwicke himself, a sturdy man of medium height, who wore great mustaches, had on a leather apron and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing the brawny biceps of a smith.
Standing by the gunmaker, in the shadowy, narrow entry, was a very pretty girl in a dark blue dress. She was as tall as the smith, but very trim and slight, and her chestnut brown hair was worn low over her ears, throwing into relief her pallid face, and the rather haunted, tired look in her fine grey eyes, the marvelous smooth lines of her chin and throat.
A third figure now emerged from the gloom, a small Negro boy, to whom the girl was handing a letter, with her trembling white hands. As the Indian, the veteran and the gunsmith withdrew into the workroom, Abram could hear her saying to the lad, as she closed the door by way of added emphasis: “Tell him to be sure and come.”
He could hear the footsteps of the girl as she went upstairs, and henceforth he lost most of his interest in the question of obtaining a rifle of the Spanish design. All his designs were elsewhere, and he was glad when the smith suggested they visit another room on the opposite side of the entry, to look at several sets of extra large horns of the grey moose or elk, which had recently come down on an ark from somewhere up Tiadaghton.
As they crossed the hallway, Abram Antoine looked up the flight of stairs–there were three that he could make out–wondering on which floor the fair apparition retired to; he presumed pretty near the roof, as he had not heard her on the loose laid floor above the workshop.