In contrast with these were my uncle's snug quarters, for warmth was a
part of Esmond Clarenden's creed. I used to think that the little
storeroom, filled with such things as a frontier fort could find use
for, was the biggest emporium in America, and the owner thereof suffered
nothing, in my eyes, in comparison with A.T. Stewart, the opulent New
York merchant of his day.

As I ran, bareheaded and coatless, across the wide wet space between our
home and the storehouse a soldier came dashing by on horseback. I dodged
behind him only to fall sprawling in a slippery pool under the very feet
of another horseman, riding swiftly toward the boat-landing.

Neither man paid any attention to me as I slowly picked myself up and
started toward the store. The soldier had not seen me at all. The other
man's face was dark, and he wore the dress of the Mexican. It was only
by his alertness and skill that his horse missed me, but as he hurried
away he gave no more heed to me than if I had been a stone in his path.

I had turned my ankle in the fall and I could only limp to the
storehouse and drop down inside. I would not cry out, but I could not
hold back the sobs as I tried to stand, and fell again in a heap at
Jondo's feet.

"Things were stirrin'" there, as Aunty Boone had said, but withal there
was no disorder. Esmond Clarenden never did business in that way. No
loose ends flapped about his rigging, and when a piece of work was
finished with him, there was nothing left to clear away. Bill Banney,
the big grown-up boy from Kentucky, who, out of love of adventure, had
recently come to the fort, was helping Jondo with the packing of certain
goods. Mat and Beverly were perched on the counter, watching all that