COLONEL HUNTLEY had cold gray eyes which, when he chose, had an insult in their every glance. And now, as Walter Jordan’s eyes met his, he never stirred from the cabin door. Quietly the lad stood and looked at him; and the cold, valuing eyes were filled with mockery.
“Do you want anything?” he asked, sneeringly.
“I wish to go into the cabin,” replied the boy. “Will you kindly step out of the way?”
Colonel Huntley laughed in an unpleasant manner, but did not move.
“I think,” said he, “I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
“Perhaps,” said the boy.
“You’re the son of Carroll Jordan, attorney, at Louisville?” said Colonel Huntley.
“I am,” said Walter.
“I knew your father,” sneered Huntley.
“If you did,” came the boy’s swift reply, “you knew one of the finest gentlemen in Kentucky.”
The mockery in Huntley’s eyes increased.
“That depends altogether on how one looks at it,” said he.
When Walter Jordan spoke there was a ring in his voice which Ned Chandler knew well.
“Looked at in the right way,” said the lad, “and by that I mean the way in which any fair and honest person would look at it, there can be only one opinion. And that is the one which I have given.”
The bullet-headed young man grinned widely, showing a row of strong teeth, with wide spaces between them. He nodded to Colonel Huntley.
“That’s talking,” said he. “Right to your face, too.”
Huntley had a satisfied look in his face; his cold eyes examined Walter from head to foot. Ned Chandler plucked at his friend’s sleeve, and breathed into his ear.
“Look out! He’s trying to get you into some kind of a muss.”
“So,” spoke Huntley, and his tones were as cold as his eyes, “you don’t consider me either fair or honest, then?”
Walter met the man’s look steadily.
“I have not mentioned you,” said he. “I referred to those persons who might, as you suggested, speak ill of my father. You have not said what you thought, sir.”
Again Huntley laughed his unpleasant laugh.
“You are something of a diplomat,” said he. “Or, had I better say, a dodger.”
“Why, if I cared to,” said Walter, quietly, “I might say almost the same thing of yourself. Put yourself on record—say openly what you mean, and I will give you an answer, plain enough for you or anybody else.”
There was a silence after the boy’s bold words. Ned Chandler’s eyes snapped with delight, for here was a chance for excitement. Colonel Huntley hesitated—not at all because he had not a ready word or act, but apparently because he feared to trust himself. It was his bullet-headed companion who spoke.
“I’ve heard of your father,” said he. “I’ve been told of the little game he’s up to; and I think he’s trying to feather his own nest.”
Apparently stung to the quick, young Jordan whirled upon the speaker, his hand drawn back for a blow. But he felt an iron clutch on his wrist, and saw the burly chief mate of the “Mediterranean” at his side.
“None of that,” said the mate, sternly. “No fighting here. There are women passengers, you know.”
The bullet-headed youth had stepped aside at Walter’s first swift motion; this left a space in the cabin doorway, and seizing the chance, Ned Chandler crowded his friend through and pushed him along the full length of the men’s cabin, in spite of his efforts to halt.
“Now,” said the light-haired boy, when they finally brought up in an unoccupied corner, “before you say anything, let me tell you what I think.” He shoved his hands down into his trousers pockets, and eyed his friend calmly.
“You were a little excited out there,” said he, “and maybe you didn’t see what I saw.”
“I saw that Colonel Huntley deliberately set out to insult me,” said Walter, his eyes glinting with anger, his fists clenched.
“That’s true,” said Ned, coolly. “So he did. And more than that.”
Walter looked at his friend, for in his tone he noted a something which attracted his attention.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“The whole thing was arranged,” said Ned, nodding his head assuredly. “Those two planted themselves in the doorway to wait for you. Colonel Huntley was to provoke you, and that fellow Barker was to step in at the right moment and pick a fight with you.”
Walter threw up his hand and his angry eyes sought the length of the men’s cabin.
“Well,” said he, his hands tightly clenched, “it’s not too late, if he’s still of the same mind.”
But Ned Chandler shook his head; apparently he did not agree with his friend’s present humor.
“I know how you must feel,” said he, “to hear your father badly spoken of in a thing like this. He’s giving his money and his time and his learning to do a thing which will never bring him a penny of gain. He’s sending you on a mission to a distant place like Texas, just because he wants to see right done. And to hear people say things, like those Huntley and Barker have said, is hard to bear. But you must bear it.”
“I will not!” said Walter steadily, his eyes still searching the cabin for the two men.
As a rule, young Jordan was the cooler and more thoughtful of the two boys. Ned was the impulsive one, the plunger into adventure, a rollicking, harum-scarum youngster. But, so it seemed, what had been said against his father had stirred Walter deeply and made him throw his usual caution aside. And seeing this, Ned, who was observant enough when he was so inclined, had seized the helm and was now guiding the craft of their fortunes.
“Such people as those,” said Walter, “are of the sort who make a business of bullying. They try to browbeat every one they meet; and they are encouraged by people’s giving in to them. And I don’t mean to do that.”
“That Barker has a bad look,” said Ned, “and he’s a pretty strong-looking fellow. No, no,” hastily, as he caught sight of the expression that came into his friend’s face, “of course his strength wouldn’t make any difference to you. But take a look at it from the other side. These two haven’t planned this thing with just the idea of getting you into a fight. They are deeper than that.” He put his hand upon Walter’s arm. “Suppose,” said he, in a lower tone, “you were hurt. What then?”
Walter looked at young Chandler, and gradually the expression of his face changed.
“Our trip to Texas would be delayed,” said he.
“That’s it,” said Ned. “And they would get there ahead of you; and the thing your father is so set on doing for this girl in Texas would never be done.”
The anger had now altogether left Walter Jordan’s face; he laid his hand upon Ned’s shoulder.
“You are right,” said he. “I see it now. That’s just what they are after. And I see Sam Davidge’s hand in it. He’s planned it with them.”
The two sat down upon chairs in the corner to discuss this new aspect. The men’s cabin was crowded with all sorts of travelers; and the clatter and rumble of voices went on with the regularity of the engine’s throb. Almost every walk of life was represented among the passengers. Planters on the way down the river to Natchez or New Orleans; sharpers on the lookout for some easy means of gaining money; slave dealers, the sellers of plantation requirements, steamboat men, drovers, adventurers and desperadoes on their way to the new country—Texas.
These latter were easily known by their dress and manner. Some were elegantly attired in the fashion of the time, others wore flannel shirts and wide-rimmed hats, and had the legs of their trousers stuffed into long leather boots. Still another class possessed the hunting shirt, deerskin leggings and coonskin cap of the backwoodsman. All were armed with pistol, knife and rifle; and all had the free, loud, independent ways of their kind.
“Texas,” declared the man with the strong voice which the lads had heard while upon the deck, “was never made for Mexicans. It’s a great country, and none but white men are fit to own it. I, for one, am going down there with a rifle that can snuff out a candle at fifty yards, and I’m going to have a personal word for Santa Anna if I ever run across him.”
A shout went up from the adventurers, rifle butts rattled upon the cabin floor and brawny fists thumped tables and the arms of chairs.
“Now you’re shouting!” cried another man, a lank backwoodsman in a fringed buckskin shirt. “Let them stop palavering and get to work. Greasers’ll never do anything but talk if you talk with them. Lead’s my way of conversing with such folks—lead out of a rifle barrel, and with a good eye behind it.”
“What’s the committee that’s got charge of things doing down there?” asked a booted and burly man in a soiled flannel shirt and a huge Remington revolver sticking in his belt. “Why don’t they get to some kind of an agreement, and let Sam Houston loose to march against the Greasers. As my friend here says, talk’s no good, if it’s not backed up by rifles. What they need is to give Houston about five thousand men who know how to shoot, and in three months’ time you’ll never hear another word from Santa Anna and his gang.”
While they talked, the boys kept their eyes fixed upon the people in the cabin, watching for Huntley or his shadow. Just then the whistle of the steamboat shrieked and the engine slowed down in answer to the pilot’s bell.
“We’re about to make a landing,” said Ned, his gaze going to a window. “See how near the Tennessee shore is.”
“It’s a place called Randolph,” said a planter who sat near by.
“Going to take on some passengers, I suppose,” said Ned.
“And while the boat’s doing that,” said Walter, steadily watching two figures who were pushing their way through the crowded cabin toward them, “I think you and I’ll be entertaining Colonel Huntley and his friend Mr. Barker.”