“Ain't Gid Ward ever goin' to suffer for any of his actions?” demanded Parker's foreman, disgustedly.
“What are we goin' to do?” bleated another man.
“I'll write a letter to the high sheriff,” said the postmaster, and then he added, bitterly, “an' he'll prob'ly wait till it's settled goin' in the spring, same's he did when we sent down that complaint about Ward's men wreckin' Johnson's store. An' by that time he'll forget all about comin'. Talk about kings and emperors! If we hain't got one on West Branch waters, then you can brand me for a liar with one of my own date stamps.”
Parker maintained grim silence as he lay on the sled. No one spoke to him. The men were too busy with songs and rough jests over the business of the evening. The engineer would not confess to himself that he was frightened, but the wantonness and alacrity with which the irresponsible men had destroyed valuable property impressed him with ominous apprehension of what they might do to him. He wondered what revenge Connick was meditating.
It was a strange and tedious ride for the young man. The woodsmen sat jammed so closely about him that he could see only the frosty stars glimmering wanly in the moonlight. When the songs and the roaring conversations were stilled for a moment, he could hear the lisp of the runners on the smooth surface and the slashing grind of the iron-clad peavey-sticks.
Although the bodies of his neighbors had kept the cold blast from him, he staggered on his numb feet when they untied his bonds at Poquette and ordered him to get off the sled. Connick came along and gazed on the young man grimly while they were freeing him.
“Aha, my bantam!” he growled.
Parker braced himself to meet a blow. He felt that the giant would now take satisfactory vengeance for the discomfiture he had suffered before his men at Sunkhaze. Connick raised his hand, that in its big mitten seemed like a cloud against the moon, and brought it down. The young man gathered himself apprehensively, but the expected assault was merely a slap on his shoulder—a slap with such an unmistakable air of friendliness about it that Parker gazed up into the man's face with astonishment. Now he was to experience his first taste of the rude chivalry of the woods, a chivalry often based on sudden whim, but none the less sincere and manly—a chivalry of which he was to have further queer experience.
“My bantam,” said the big man, admiringly, “faith, but that was a tidy bito' footwork ye done down at Sunkhaze.” Good-humored grins and rueful scowls chased one another over his face, according as he patted Parker's back or rubbed the bump on his own head. “Sure, there's a big knob there, my boy. There's only one thing that's harder than your fist, an' that's Spinnaker ice.”
Parker attempted some embarrassed reply in way of apology, for this magnanimity of his foe touched him. The giant put up a protesting hand.