Author of "An Express from Ligonier," "The Skidi Feed the Evening Star," etc.
JIM CAMERON, a blond giant of a man, whose reputation as a forest-ranger was second only to that of Jo Martin's, rested on one elbow in the sweet June grass and surveyed his long, powerful limbs complacently. As his gaze shifted to Martin, his companion on many a scout, his mouth twitched with a little smile, then hardened. Martin, slight of build and several inches under Cameron's stature, sat with his lithe body curving forward over his knees and was staring at the toes of his moccasins. His dark features wore an expression of deep dejection.
All day the two had lounged about the Blanchard cabin, standing guard till Blanchard returned from the little mill at Devens Farms. Inside the open door Betty Blanchard tossed her pretty head as she helped her mother, and proudly told herself there was not another girl on all the New York frontier in this Summer of 1778 who could boast two such cavaliers.
Both men knew the girl was a coquette and loved her the more distractedly for the tantalizing fault; and both inwardly vowed their loitering should end once Blanchard returned. For with the father to act as intermediary the girl would be brought to book and announce her choice. Border wooings were bruskly terminated at times in these stirring days, when Sir Henry Clinton was retreating from Philadelphia to New York with General Washington at his heels. "Big Cameron" was confident the girl was as good as his wife. Martin believed the same, but would not withdraw until told as much by the maid.
"Think I'll scout up Oriskany way again. Ain't been there since we had the brush with the Mohawks," lazily remarked Cameron after a long silence. "Go along?"
Before the girl came between them this question would not have been put; each taking it for granted the two of them must follow the same trail.
"Don't think so," jerkily replied Martin without lifting his head. "Mebbe I'll drift out Mich'limack'nac way."
Cameron's pleasant face clouded for a moment: he and Martin had had some rare old times together. Of course old ties must loosen when a ranger settled down with a wife. But, Lord, how the trail would call him in the years to come. Then he caught a flutter of Betty's skirts as she switched by the door and he could only think of the maid. Another period of silence, and then both men were on their feet, bowing and scraping, only to find it was the mother and not the girl. Mrs. Blanchard smiled and the girl snickered inside the cabin.
"Look after Betty while I go up to Cotton's," said Mrs. Blanchard. "Don't let the Injuns carry her off."
"The whole Iroquois League can't harm a hair of her head," cried Big Cameron.
"I reckon she'll be here when you git back," quietly assured Martin.
With a smile for each to show her impartiality Mrs. Blanchard walked up the river trail that led to the nearest neighbor's; and the two men, still standing, looked at each other coldly.
Martin spoke first, saying:
"Cameron, we've followed our last trail together. I'm tired of uncertainties. Let's have it settled."
Cameron dropped into the grass, replying—
"I'm in no hurry."
"I am," grimly retorted Martin; and the face he showed at the door was haggard and determined. "Betty, come here and settle something for us," he peremptorily demanded.
All their words had fed through the small, square hole serving as a window. Perhaps the girl resented Martin's arbitrary tone and manner. Anyway, there were danger signals in her cheeks as she appeared in the doorway and with hands on her hips bent her gaze on the two men. Martin, although usually nonplussed in her presence, desperately requested:
"Which is it, Betsy? Him or me? Let's have it settled and done with."
The girl's eyes snapped ominously and she coldly returned—
"Lor'! Jo Martin; I never knew anything had been commenced."
"Mebbe not. That means two fools 'stead of one. But here's Cameron, who I fetched here last Winter. Here's me; who's been coming here for a year every chance I could git. Which one's wasting his time? Say which shall stop coming."
"I never asked either of you to come here," she slowly answered. "Quite a few forest-rangers go up and down the Schoharie and stop to see us. The trail's open at both ends for them that want to come—for them who're keen to go."
Cameron chuckled. Martin's dark face grew hot and he declared—
"Well, the trail's closed for me unless you say for Jim Cameron to stay away."
Oblivious to the fact a new world was being created from the primeval solitudes, that the destiny of a continent was being indexed by such sturdy characters as they, the girl braced her slender shoulders and sharply informed: