Old Vittum, sitting on a bleached trunk among the dry kye stranded on the shore, plucked slowly the spills of a pine tassel, staring down between his knees. “You’ve seen how they have worked, miss, for every ounce that’s in ’em. But I don’t know how they’ll fight if they don’t have a real captain—a single head to plan—the right man to lead off. Latisan’s that! Half of ’em came north because they figured on him. I’ve been hoping. But I’m sort of giving up.”
“I don’t like to hear you say that,” she cried. “As soon as he knows the truth he will come to us. Father Leroque promised to carry that truth to him.”
“Providing the priest can find him in the Tomah country—yes, you have said that to me and I’ve been cal’lating to see Latisan come tearing around a bend in the river most any minute ever since you told me. But Miah Sprague, the fire warden, went through to-day. I’ve been hating to report to you, miss, for I’m knowing to it how you feel these days; your looks tell me, and I’m sorry. But Sprague has come from the Tomah and he tells me that Ward Latisan hasn’t been home—hasn’t been heard from. Nobody knows where he is. That is straight from Garry Latisan, because Garry is starting a hue and a cry and asked Miah to comb the north country for news.”
She did not reply. She was not sure that there was a touch of rebuke in the old man’s mournful tones, but she felt that any sort of reproach would be justified. She had never made a calm analysis of the affair between herself and Latisan, to determine what onus of the blame rested on her and how much was due to the plots and the falsehoods of Crowley. She clung to her sense of fault in order to spur herself to make good; that same sense, a heritage from a father, had served vicariously in rousing her spirit to battle for her grandfather.
“I hope you’re going to keep up your grit, miss,” urged Vittum. “We’ll do our best for you—but I ain’t lotting much on Latisan’s showing up again. It’s too bad! It’ll break his heart when he finds out at last what he has been left out of and what a chance he has missed.”
Like many another, she had, at times, dreamed vividly of falling from great heights. That was her sensation then, awake, when she heard that Ward Latisan was not to be found. Despair left her numb and quivering. Till then she had not realized how greatly her hope and confidence in his final coming had counted with her. She had not dared to think that his anger would persist; it had seemed to be too violent to last. However, it was plain that rage had overmastered the love he had proclaimed. Lida was very much woman and felt the feminine conviction that a lover would be able to find her if his heart were set on the quest. There was only a flicker of a thought along that line; it was mere irritation that was immediately swept away by her pity for him. She was able to comprehend man’s talk then—she knew what Vittum meant when he spoke of the chance that was missed—and she understood how Ward Latisan would mourn if he heard too late what the struggle that year on the Noda waters signified in the case of the girl for whom he had professed love.
She could not talk with the old man; she stumbled across the dry kye, threw herself on her couch of boughs, and pressed her palms over her ears to keep out the threat in the song of the men who toiled around and around the capstan post, drawing the Flagg logs in their slow, relentless passage to the scene of the promised conflict at Skulltree.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
