Left alone under that low roof in the quiet forest, with the afternoon sunshine flooding in by open door and window, David gave his mind unreservedly to his accident, considering it from many points of view. He had accepted Maggie Leblanc's suggestion without question—that Goodine had caused the disaster by injuring his canoe pole in some way. Now, alone in the silent forest, he thought of the marks on the card, and remembered the story that Jim Harley had confided to him. It was foolishness, of course, to set any store by two red crosses on a playing card—and yet—and yet——
Queer things happen, he reflected. The devil still takes a hand in the games of men. The idea of the blow being the work of a supernatural agency, directed by the marked card, grew upon him. But even so, what more likely than that Dick Goodine had cut his canoe pole—had been chosen as the instrument of fate? One has strange fancies when lying faint and hurt in a silent wilderness, in a golden, empty afternoon.
The sunlight gradually died away from window and door. David thought of his loss and counted the money that would slip from his fingers, owing to the broken arm. This was bitter food for the mind of such a man as David Marsh. Mr. Banks, the rich and generous American sportsman, would soon be at Samson's Mill Settlement—only, alas, for the profit of some other than the unfortunate Davy. It was a hard fact to consider, but at last the sullen young man fell asleep with the weight of it on his mind.
He dreamed of a life-and-death struggle with a Spanish count, who looked like Dick Goodine dressed up in queer clothes. The Spanish nobleman ran a knife into his arm and the pain was sickening. The count vanished, and beside him stood a young man in a blue coat with brass buttons, whom they called Jackson. This Mr. Jackson had a terrible leer on his face, and a huge pistol in his right hand. Seizing David by the collar, he hammered him with the pistol upon the wound made by the Spaniard's knife. David yelled with the pain of it—and woke up! Above him leaned Doctor Nash, holding a lantern, and with a finger on the broken arm. "Quit it!" cried David. "Quit it, doc! That's the busted place yer pinchin'."
A painful period of twenty minutes followed, and at the end of it David's arm was in splints and bandages, and David's face was absolutely colorless. Nash brought him 'round with a long drink of brandy.
"Hell!" said David. "That's all I want to see of you for the rest o' my life, doc."
The doctor grinned, mopped his heated brow, and set the lantern on the table. "Oh, that's nothing," he said. "Booh! I've done ten times as much as that before breakfast. Keep still, now, and give it a chance. Your arm will be as good as new in a few months."
David groaned. Nash built up the fire.
"I'm hungry," he said. "Where d'you keep your grub? Got anything fit to eat?"
"I reckon yes," returned the woodsman. "There's plenty of grub in this camp, and every durn ounce of it is fit for anybody to eat. Well, I guess! There's eggs in that there box on the floor, and bacon in the cupboard, and tea and coffee, and everything. Help yourself, doc. It was bought to feed Mr. Banks—so I guess you'll find it good enough for you."