CHAPTER II
ENOCH HARDING FEELS HIMSELF A MAN
Although Enoch Harding had not grasped the serious nature of the matter which the ranger’s words suggested, there was something he had realized, however, and this thought sent the blood coursing through his veins with more than wonted vigor and his eyes sparkled. He was a man. He was to play a man’s part on this day and the neighbors–even the old ranger who had stood his friend on so many occasions already–recognized him as the head of the family.
Bolderwood saw this thought expressed in his face and without desiring to “take him down” and humble his pride, wished to show him the serious side of the situation. To this end he spoke upon another subject, beginning: “D’ye remember where we be, Nuck? ’Member this place? Seems strange that you sh’d have such a caper here with that catamount after what happened only last spring, doesn’t it?” He glanced keenly at young Harding and saw that his words had at once the desired effect. Enoch stood up, the skinning-knife in his hand, and looked over the little glade. In a moment his brown eyes filled with tears, which rolled unchastened down his smooth cheeks.
“Aye, Nuck, a sorry day for you an’ yourn when Jonas Harding met his death here. And a sorry day was it for me, too, lad. I loved him like a brother. He an’ I, Nuck, trapped this neck of woods together before the settlement was started. We knew how rich the land was and naught but the wars with the redskins an’ them French kept us from comin’ here long before the Robinsons. Jonas wouldn’t come ’less it was safe to bring your mother an’ you–an’ he was right. There’s little good in a man’s roamin’ the world without a wife an’ fireside ter tie to. I was sayin’ the same to neighbor Allen last week, an’ he agreed–though he’s wuss off than me, for he has a family back in Litchfield an’ is under anxiety all the time to bring them here, if the Yorkers but leave us in peace. As for me–well, a tough old knot like me ain’t fit to marry an’ settle down. I’m wuss nor an Injin.”
It is doubtful if the boy heard half this monologue. He stood with thoughtful mien and his eyes were still wet when Bolderwood’s words finally aroused him. “Do you know, Nuck, there’s many a time I stop at this ford and think of your father’s death? There’s things about it I’ll never understand, I reckon.”
Enoch Harding started and flashed a quick glance at his friend. “What things?” he asked.
“Well, lad, mainly that Jonas Harding, who was as quick on the trail and as good a woodsman as myself, should be worsted by a mad buck; it seems downright impossible, Nuck.”
“I know. But there could be no mistake about it, ’Siah. There were the hoof-marks–and there was no bullet wound on the body, only those gashes made by the critter’s horns. Simon Halpen—”
Bolderwood raised his hand quickly. “Nay, lad! don’t utter evil even about that Yorker. We all know he was anigh here when your father died. He was seen at Bennington the night before, and later crossed James Breckenridge’s farm on his way to Albany. Black enemy as he is to you and yourn, there’s naught to be gained by accusing him of Jonas’ death. It would be impossible. There was not, as you say, a bullet wound upon your father’s body. There was not a mark of man’s footstep near the lick here but your father’s own. How else, then, could he have been killed but by the charge of the buck?”