CHAPTER III.
AN UNLUCKY SKETCH.
The hill projected farther toward the southwest than in any other direction, and in my wanderings I came to that point. Looking back, I obtained a sweeping view of Fort Defiance, with its sloping roofs and sombre-hued walls. At one angle the vines had grown up and clung against the wall. It was such a place as I would like to tell about when I returned to my friends, and, what was better, I could show it to them in its real and exact proportions. I had a pencil and some good white cardboard in an inside pocket.
I found a good seat on a stone, made ready with board and pencil, and began to study the fort. It was a fine subject for an artist, and as I sketched the rough outlines my enthusiasm grew. I had a brilliant light, which brought out every curve and angle of the queer building. Gradually, in my absorption as the picture spread over the cardboard, I forgot everything else. I was just putting in the little brass cannon that commanded the approach to the fort, when pencil and picture were snatched violently from my hands. I sprang up, full of wrath.
The old colonel stood before me, his face red, and his eyes flashing with indignation.
"You villain of a spy! You damned Yankee!" he cried.
"What do you mean? Are you crazy?" I asked. I did not take kindly to such names, even from the mouth of an old man.
He was in a great rage, for his next words choked him. But he got them out at last.
"You an innocent hunter!" he cried. "And you were lost in the mountains! That's a pretty tale! I suspected you from the first, you infernal Yankee spy, and now I have the proof."
I was really afraid the old man would fall down in a fit, and I began to feel more sorrow than anger.