As we sighted it, one of the men spoke. I caught the word “Spade.” It was that which they were going to get at the smithy, then? A spade!
The word chilled my blood—I shivered. The glow of the smithy fire grew stronger as we advanced, the ring of a hammer on metal reached us. The men seemed to be disturbed by something and spoke low to one another. They even drew rein for a moment and conferred, but on second thoughts they moved on. “It can’t be old Barter,” said one. “But I’m mighty surprised if there was a fire when we came by. Who’s lit it?”
“Perhaps his lad’s come back?”
“Jake? Maybe. We’ll soon know.”
They drew up towards the forge at a walk.
When we were twenty yards from the doorway whence the light issued, a man strolled out of the shed, his hands in his pockets. He stood in the glow of the fire, looking towards us; doubtless he had heard the sound of the horses’ hoofs above the clink of the hammer. He had a cigar in his mouth, and as he stood watching our approach he did not remove it, nor take his hands from his pockets. He stood quietly watching us, as we came towards him.
“Halloa!” said Levi, as we pulled up two or three paces from the stranger. “Lit the forge, have you?”
“Cast a shoe,” the man replied. He was a small man, plainly, but, for the up-country, neatly dressed, and wearing a black leather jockey-cap. A rather elegant finical little man he seemed to me, and unarmed. Such as he was, my hopes flew to him, and rested on him, though in the way of help old Barter could scarcely have seemed less promising.
“You alone?” Levi asked, looking him over.
“You’ve said it,” the man replied placidly. His eyes traveled from one to another of us. He did not move.