He thrashed about here and there, and so came across Ellis blindfolded and tied. When released, the dam watcher was unable to give any account of his assailants.
“They came up behind me while I was cooking,” he said. “One of 'em grabbed me and the other one kivered my eyes. Then I hears the 'shot' and knows there's trouble.”
Thorpe listened in silence. Shearer asked a few questions. After the low-voiced conversation Thorpe arose abruptly.
“Where you going?” asked Shearer.
But the young man did not reply. He swung, with the same long, nervous stride, into the down-river trail.
Until late that night the three men—for Ellis insisted on accompanying them—hurried through the forest. Thorpe walked tirelessly, upheld by his violent but repressed excitement. When his hat fell from his head, he either did not notice the fact, or did not care to trouble himself for its recovery, so he glanced through the trees bare-headed, his broad white brow gleaming in the moonlight. Shearer noted the fire in his eyes, and from the coolness of his greater age, counselled moderation.
“I wouldn't stir the boys up,” he panted, for the pace was very swift. “They'll kill some one over there, it'll be murder on both sides.”
He received no answer. About midnight they came to the camp.
Two great fires leaped among the trees, and the men, past the idea of sleep, grouped between them, talking. The lesson of twisted timbers was not lost to their experience, and the evening had brought its accumulation of slow anger against the perpetrators of the outrage. These men were not given to oratorical mouthings, but their low-voiced exchanges between the puffings of a pipe led to a steadier purpose than that of hysteria. Even as the woodsmen joined their group, they had reached the intensity of execution. Across their purpose Thorpe threw violently his personality.
“You must not go,” he commanded.