Hay Stockard
watched it intently. Three men rose and dipped, rose and dipped, in
rhythmical precision; but a red bandanna, wrapped about the head of one,
caught and held his eye.
"Bill!" he called. "Oh, Bill!"
A shambling, loose-jointed giant rolled out of one of the tents, yawning
and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Then he sighted the strange canoe
and was wide awake on the instant.
"By the jumping Methuselah! That damned sky-pilot!"
Hay Stockard nodded his head bitterly, half-reached for his rifle, then
shrugged his shoulders.
"Pot-shot him," Bill suggested, "and settle the thing out of hand. He'll
spoil us sure if we don't." But the other declined this drastic measure
and turned away, at the same time bidding the woman return to her work,
and calling Bill back from the bank. The two Indians in the canoe moored
it on the edge of the eddy, while its white occupant, conspicuous by his
gorgeous head-gear, came up the bank.
"Like Paul of Tarsus, I give you greeting. Peace be unto you and grace
before the Lord."
His advances were met sullenly, and without speech.
"To you, Hay Stockard, blasphemer and Philistine, greeting.
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