Kings of the Missouri. Hugh Pendexter

blood-money. Stand here with me behind the door."

      They leaned against the wall and listened. Till now Lander had heard nothing. With his ear to the wall he fancied he caught the sound of soft footsteps stealing to the door. Papa Clair caught him by the ear and dragged down his head and murmured:

      "There are twelve or more—only six apiece. I hear some still coming up the stairs. When they come in keep behind me. We must get into the hall and put out the light."

      "We can go down the back way."

      "Much better. I see your head is clear. They will be sure to have men posted at the bottom of the front stairs. Now be ready."

      An audible shuffling outside the door heralded ​the coming attack. There followed a few seconds of silence; then Lander jumped spasmodically as a volley of heavy balls riddled the panels of the door, smashed in the wall beyond and shattered the window. With the discharge of firearms there came a rush of heavy bodies against the none-too-strong door, and in swept the mob of professional killers. The one light in the hall burned dimly and was at the top of the stairs some twenty feet away. It barely dispelled the thick gloom of the room.

      The first two men in were now at the bed, stabbing furiously. One man wheeled and blundered into the couple crouching behind the door waiting for a chance to dart into the hall. The blunderer screamed and fell writhing to the floor. Papa Clair dived into the group, horribly active and efficient. Lander with his rifle in one hand and knife in the other kept behind him.

      Instantly the room was choked with yells and curses. Blows were showered on the two at random, and Lander's upraised rifle proved an excellent buckler. Some of the blows, blindly bestowed, fell on the intruders. Pistols were discharged at close range, but the darkness of the room prevented accuracy of execution.

      ​Neither Clair nor Lander had time to distinguish individuals. With their eyes more accustomed to the darkness they made out a frantic mass of milling men, and thrust their knives at random where they found their way blocked by the surging bodies.

      "To the door!" yelled Lander to recall Papa Clair from his Berserk rage.

      The old man remembered their purpose was to escape and shifted his advance, swinging his knife in an arc before him and leaving it for his pupil to guard the flanks. When first precipitated into the conflict Lander was heart-sick at the thought of bloodshed; now he was committed to it. Once he had heard the grunts of the two stabbing the empty bed, he knew only one sensation, to hack his way clear of the beasts who for a few pieces of silver had come to murder an inoffensive stranger.

      Cursing and screaming, the hired assassins found their very numbers blocking them. Then one voice rose above the hubbub, yelling:

      "That ol' devil of a Clair's here! Look out fer that knife!"

      "In your throat!" shrilly cried Papa Clair, and he seemed to straighten out in mid-air, his ​knife-point darting an incredible distance. His traducer went down, choking and coughing.

      Lander brought his knife back in a wide slash that sent the crowding assailants reeling back for a moment, and with a rush carried Papa through the door and to the head of the stairs. After them came those still able to walk. With a swing of his rifle he knocked the light to the floor and the hall was in darkness.

      Papa turned to renew the fight but, putting up his knife, Lander swept him from his feet and carried him down the hall. The desperadoes took it for granted their quarry had descended the main stairs to the street, and they called for the lookout at the outer door to stop them. As they rushed down the stairs Lander sighed in relief and led the way down the rear stairs.

      "Bridger was right," said Lander as they stole through the dark streets. "Tilton and his gang will never be satisfied until they get me."

      "The more so, my friend, because M'sieu Bridger appeared in the affair as your champion. Yes, you must go. … But life stops for old Papa Clair after you've gone. Yet behold, you should have gone before. The time for wooing is after the long trail has been covered, when your ​buckskin garments are so worn no one can tell what they are made of. To come back and say: 'I have seen life. I have lived and fought my way among men and savages.' Ah, that is the speech that makes m'm'selle very proud. A woman likes to discover things in the man she loves, not to know him as we know the way from here to Petite Côte. Her love is like an old mountain man—always hungry for something new."

      "Eighteen months!" muttered Lander, more to himself than to Papa Clair.

      "The months will pass. Come snow, go snow. What profit could you squeeze out of them if you stayed here and worked in a store?

      "Life is a bag of months. Fortune is what a man squeezes out of them. To get his satisfy he must squeeze each month very hard. If he can't get love he gets gold. If neither love nor gold he can at least get red-blooded life. Fortune may play tricks with him; m'm'selle may turn from him, but life, real and burning, can always be his."

      "Yes, yes; of course," mumbled Lander, in a poor mood for the comforts of philosophy. "Now you must leave me. Deliver the letter to Susette in the morning. I must hurry to Bridger's store and get the mule."

      ​"The little lady shall have the letter early in the morning. Do not doubt it. My friend, always wear my knife and scabbard. Do not, unless hard pressed by several, uncover yourself with those wide, slashing movements you used in the room. Keep behind the point, and God bless you."

      Instead of taking Lander's outstretched hand he seized him by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks.

      Lander almost winced in his surprise, then remembered the Frenchman's emotional nature, also his ferocity as a fighting man, and for the first time during the day found himself thinking of some one besides himself and Susette. The slight, frail figure and the snowy hair contrasted vividly with the indomitable will and high heart. He realized he had been Papa Clair's only intimate, perhaps the only close friend the old man had known for many years.

      "Good-by, Papa. God knows I am grateful for all you've done for me. Sometime we'll meet again."

      "A year and a half will go quicker for an old man than for youth waiting for his sweetheart. I shall be here, looking for you when the men ​come back from the mountains. … Remember and keep behind the point, I shall think of you much. … Only clumsy fools try to see how much blood they can let loose with a knife with their cutting and slashing."

      There was more, but he had turned away and the words were lost in his throat.

      Lander, too, felt very lonely as he made for the Washington Avenue store. He found the mule hitched at the rear of the dark building. Mounting and holding his rifle ready to repulse any attack, he rode to the plain back of the city and swung into the north for his dash to St. Charles.