The Hunters of the Hills by Joseph A. Altsheler (win 10 ebook reader TXT) 📖

pleasure was natural. After a while de Courcelles hooked his arm again in Robert's and said: "Come, I'll show you something."

He led the way down a narrow passage, and then into a large apartment, well lighted, though not so brilliantly as the ballroom. A clicking sound had preceded their entrance, and Robert was aware that he was in the famous gambling room of Monsieur Bigot. Nearly twenty men, including the Intendant himself, Cadet and Pean, were there, gambling eagerly with cards or dice.

And standing by one of the tables, a frown on his freckled face, Robert also saw the man, Boucher.

CHAPTER XII THE HUNTER AND THE BRAVO

Robert turned away, not wishing to meet Boucher again, as he felt that the man would say something provocative, and, standing on one side with de Courcelles, he watched the players. The air was heated, and the faces of the men were strained and eager. It was all unwholesome to the last degree, and he felt repulsion, yet it held him for the time with a fascination due to curiosity. He saw Boucher begin to play and as the latter held his cards, noticed again his thick and strong, but supple wrists. Uncommon wrists they were, and Robert knew that an uncommon amount of power was stored in them.

Bigot presently observed Robert, and asked him to play, but the lad declined, and he was brave enough to say that he never played. Bigot laughed and shook his head.

"Ah, you Puritan Bostonnais!" he said; "you'll never learn how to live."

Then he went back to his game.

"I think," said Robert, upon whom the heat and thick air were beginning to tell, "that I'd like to go outside and breathe a little fresh air."

"It is like a hothouse in here," said de Courcelles.

"It's but a step from this room to a little garden, where we can find all the cool air we want."

"Then show the way," said Robert quickly. He was eager to escape from the room, not alone for the sake of air, but because the place choked him. After a period of excitement and mental intoxication the reaction had come. The colors were growing dimmer, the perfume in the air turned to poison, and he longed for the clean out-of-doors.

De Courcelles opened a small door and they stepped out. Robert did not notice that Boucher instantly put down his cards and followed. Before them was a grassy lawn with borders of rose bushes, and beyond, the vast sweep of the hills, the river and the far shore showed dimly through the dusk. The air, moved by a light wind, was crisp, fresh and pure, and, as Robert breathed it deeply, he felt his head grow clear and cool. Several men were walking in the garden. One of them was Jumonville, and the others he did not know.

"A wonderful site and a wonderful view," said Robert.

"But from Montmartre in Paris one may see a far greater city," said
Boucher at his elbow.

Robert turned angrily upon him. He felt that the man, in some manner, was pursuing him, and that he had stood enough.

"I did not speak to you, Monsieur Boucher," he said.

"But I spoke to you, my young sprig of a Bostonnais."

He spoke with truculence, and now de Courcelles did not interfere. The others, hearing loud and harsh words, drew near. Jumonville came very close and regarded Robert with great intentness, evidently curious to see what he would do. The youth stared at Boucher in amazement, but he exercised his utmost self-control.

"I know that you spoke to me, Monsieur Boucher," he said, "but as I do not see any relevancy in your remarks I will ask you to excuse me. I came here merely for the air with Colonel de Courcelles."

He turned away, expecting de Courcelles to resume the walk with him, but the figure of the Frenchman stiffened and he did not move. All at once a wind of hostility seemed to be blowing. Somewhere in the dusk, somebody laughed lightly. Robert's face blazed, but he was still master of himself.

"And so you would leave after speaking to me in a manner that is an insult," sneered Boucher.

"You were the first to give an insult."

"If you think so I am ready to return satisfaction."

Boucher folded his arms across his chest, his powerful wrists crossed, and stared at Robert, his lips wrinkling in ugly fashion. It was a look like that which Tandakora had given him, and there in the background was the huge and sinister figure of the Indian, wrapped in his blanket of flame. He also saw de Mézy and he too was sneering in insolent triumph. De Courcelles, from whom he had a right at that time to expect friendship, or at least support, had drawn farther away.

"I am a guest here," said Robert, "and I seek no trouble. I don't wish to mar the hospitality of Monsieur Bigot by being a party to a quarrel in his garden."

Again that light laugh came from a point somewhere in the dusk and again
Robert's face blazed, but he still held himself under firm control.

"You were ready enough to fight Count Jean de Mézy this morning," said Boucher, "knowing that he was not in condition and that you had a skill with the sword not suspected by him."

The truth of it all flashed upon Robert with the certainty of conviction. The entire situation had been arranged and de Courcelles was one of its principals. He had been brought into the garden that a fight might be forced upon him there. Boucher was a bravo and undoubtedly a great swordsman. He understood now the secret of those thick flexible wrists and of the man's insulting manner. His blood became ice in his veins for a moment or two, but it was good for him, cooling his head and quickening his mind. His heart beat with regularity and steadiness.

"I thank you, Monsieur de Courcelles," he said, "for your action in this matter, which I now understand. It's true that it departs in some respects from what I have understood to be the code and practice of a French gentleman, but doubtless, sir, it's your right to amend those standards as you choose."

De Courcelles flushed, bit his lip and was silent.

"Very pretty! Very pretty!" sneered Boucher, "but French gentlemen are the best judges of their own manners and morals. You have your sword, sir, and I have mine. Here is a fine open space, well lighted by the moon, and no time is better than the present. Will you draw, sir?"

"He will not," said a voice over Robert's shoulder, which he instantly recognized as that of the hunter. He felt suddenly as if a great wall had been raised for his support. He was no longer alone among plotting enemies.

"And why will he not, and what affair is it of yours?" asked Boucher, his manner threatening.

Willet took a step forward, his figure towering and full of menace. Just behind him was Tayoga. Robert had never seen the hunter look taller or more charged with righteous wrath. But it was an anger that burned like a white hot flame, and it was alive with deadly menace.

"He will not draw because he was brought here to be assassinated by you, bully and bravo that you are," replied Willet, plumbing the very depths of Boucher's eyes with his stern gaze. "I like the French, and I know them to be a brave and honest people. I did not think that in a gathering of French gentlemen enough could be found to form a treacherous and murderous conspiracy like this."

Nobody laughed in the dusk. The silence was intense. A cool wind blew across Robert's face, and he felt anew that an invincible champion stood by his side. Boucher broke the silence with a contemptuous laugh.

"Out of the way, sir," he said. "The affair does not concern you. If he does not draw and defend himself I will chastise him with the flat of my sword."

"You will not," said the hunter, in his cool, measured tones. "You will fight me, instead."

"My quarrel is not with you."

"But it soon will be."

Near Willet was a rose bush with fresh earth heaped over its roots. Stooping suddenly he picked up a handful and flung it with force into the bravo's face. Boucher swore under his breath, stepped back, and wiped away the earth.

"You've earned the precedence, sir," he said, "though I reserve the right to attend to Mr. Lennox afterward. 'Tis a pity that I should have to waste my steel on a common hunter. I call all of you to witness that this quarrel was forced upon me."

"Your pity does you credit," said the hunter, "but it's not needed.
'Twere better, sir, if you have such a large supply of that commodity
that you save a little of it for yourself. And as for your attending to
Mr. Lennox afterward, that meeting, I think, will not occur."

A long breath came from the crowd. This strange hunter spoke in a confident tone, and so he must know more than a little of the sword. De Galisonnière had just come into the garden, and was about to speak, but when he saw that Willet was face to face with Boucher he remained silent.

"Robert," said the hunter, "do you give me full title to this quarrel of yours?"

"Yes, it is yours," replied the youth, knowing that the hunter would not be denied, and having supreme confidence in him.

"And now, Monsieur Boucher," continued Willet, "the quicker the better. Mr. Lennox will be my second and I recommend that you choose for yours one of three gentlemen, Colonel de Courcelles, Count de Mézy or the Captain de Jumonville, all of whom conspired to lead a boy into this garden and to his death."

The faces of the three became livid.

"And," said the hunter, "if any one of the three gentlemen whom I have mentioned should feel the need of satisfaction after I have attended to Monsieur Pierre Boucher, I shall be very glad to satisfy him."

De Mézy recovering himself, and assuming a defiant manner, took the part of Boucher's second. Willet removed his coat and waistcoat and handed them to Robert, beside whom Tayoga was now standing. Then he drew his sword and balanced it a moment in his hand, before he clasped it lightly but firmly by the hilt.

Another long breath came from the crowd which had increased. Every man there was aware that something uncommon was afoot. Who and what Boucher was most of them knew, but the hunter was an unknown quantity, all the more interesting because of the mystery that enshrouded him. And the interest was deepened when they saw his swift, easy motion, his wonderful lightness for so large a man, and the manner in which the hilt of his sword fitted into his hand, as if they had long been brothers.

"I call you all to witness once again," said Boucher, "that this quarrel was forced upon me, and that I had no wish to slay a wandering hunter of the Bostonnais."

Willet made no reply for the present. He took his position and Boucher took his. The seconds gave the word, their swords clashed together, and they stepped back, each looking for an opening in the other's guard. Then it dawned upon the bravo that a swordsman stood before him. But he had not the slightest fear. He knew his own skill and strength.

"It's strange that a hunter should know anything about the sword," he said, "but it seems that you do and the fact pleases me much. I would not have it said that I cut down an ignorant man."

"And yet it might be said," replied the hunter. "Do you remember the boy, Gaston Lafitte, whom you fought behind the Luxembourg near twenty years ago?"

The face of Boucher suddenly went deathly white, and, for a moment, he trembled.

"Who are you, you mumming hunter?" he cried. "I know no Gaston Lafitte."

"There you lie, Boucher. You knew him well enough and you can't forget him if you would. Your face has shown it. It was well that you had powerful friends then, or you would soon be completing your twentieth year in the galleys."

The blood rushed back into Boucher's face until it was a blazing red, and he attacked savagely. Few men could have stood before that powerful and cunning offense, but Willet met him at