CHAPTER V
DAVY CROCKETT
As the ring of river-men, adventurers, planters and border characters closed in about the prostrate form of Barker, Walter Jordan felt a hand laid on his arm. Turning, he saw the tall backwoodsman at his side.
“They’ve got all the cargo on board the boat,” said the man, “and in a moment they’ll blow the whistle for every one to get back on board. There’ll be a rush; and I reckon you’d better not be in it.”
Ned Chandler, who caught the words, understood their meaning instantly.
“That’s so,” said he, helping Walter on with his coat. “Barker seemed to have quite a number of friends in that crowd. And maybe one of them would try to get some sort of a sneaking revenge, Walt, if he saw a chance.”
So, together with the stranger, they walked toward the end of the wharf. And as they stepped upon the deck of the “Mediterranean,” her whistle shrieked a shrill warning. There was an instant rush of passengers; and from the upper deck the three saw Barker helped on board by a couple of negroes.
“Colonel Huntley doesn’t look any too well pleased,” said Ned with a grin, as he caught sight of the sombre face of that gentleman. “His little plot was rather mussed up.”
The tall backwoodsman looked interested.
“What’s this?” said he. “Plot? Colonel Huntley?”
“The colonel,” spoke Walter, “for an hour or two before the boat landed at Randolph spent his time in laying the foundation for a quarrel with me.”