Meanwhile, no painted Indian ever camped on the trail of unsuspecting pioneer with more malign intent and rancorous tenacity than Willard displayed in his pursuit and tracking of the erring pair. He was not a righteously incensed father, but a disappointed man who saw within his grasp the means of glutting the stored malice of years. To appreciate to the full Willard’s mental processes at this period of his life, not only his double-dealing in the matter of Nancy’s marriage, but his vain longings for the lost wealth of the Dolores Ranch, must be taken into account. Even then, his apologist might plead an obsession mounting almost to insanity. Nothing else would explain his actions; but no words could palliate them, for the ruthless Pawnee he resembled would assuredly have chosen a less ignoble revenge.
CHAPTER X
NANCY DECIDES
A long spur of the Adirondack Mountains stretches across Hamilton County from northeast to southwest. In a hollow on the western slopes of the range nestles Forked Lake. Some five or six miles nearer the watershed, and some hundreds of feet higher in altitude, lies a smaller and prettier lake, difficult of access, and far from the beaten track of tourists. Hither, by devious paths, Power had brought Nancy. A guide, hired at Elizabethtown, was enthusiastic about the fishing in that particular sheet of water, and he vouched for it that there was quarry in plenty for gun as well as rod; moreover, attracted by the sport and scenery, he had built a hut on the unfrequented side of the lake, in which were stored a sufficiency of rough furniture, some cooking utensils, and a canoe. Given fine weather and good health, what more did anyone want?
“Let us go there at once, Derry,” said Nancy. “A cabin among trees on the shore of a lake has always been my dream.”
“It sounds almost too idyllic,” said Power, trying to be cynical; “but we’ll hire the outfit for a week, and move on to the next caravan in a day if we don’t like it.”
They arrived at night, in a drenching downpour of rain, the outcome of the first and only thunderstorm of the season, and were inclined consequently to view with critical eyes the accommodation at their disposal. The owner of the property, who also owned a peculiar name, Peter Granite, had gone to a wood hutch for dry fuel, and Power divested Nancy of a dripping waterproof; while Peter’s dog, a nondescript of the hound type, known as “Guess,” shook his shaggy fur noisily.
“‘Peter’ and ‘Granite’ each signifies ‘rock,’” he whispered; “but Guess seems to be of opinion that we are stranded in a swamp.” Incidentally, he kissed her.
“Hush! I have faith in Peter. He told me today that some famous author came here every summer till he died; so the place must have a charm of its own.”