Before my father could reply a body of horsemen cantered up, every man
well mounted, rifle in hand, and carrying a cross-belt over his left
shoulder fitted with cartridges, bandolier fashion. Their leader, a
big, heavily-bearded, fierce-looking fellow, dropped from his saddle,
threw the rein to one of his companions, and then swaggered up to us,
scanning us with his eyes half-closed, and with a haughty, contemptuous
expression in his countenance.
"Ye're John Moray, I suppose?" he said, turning to my father, after
looking me up and down in a way I, a hot-blooded and independent lad of
eighteen, did not at all like.
"Yes," said my father quietly, "I'm John Moray. Do you want some
refreshment for your men and horses?"
"Yes, of course," said our visitor; and I wondered why such a
big-bearded, broad-shouldered fellow should speak in so high-pitched a
tone. That he was Irish he proved directly; but that excited no
surprise, for we were accustomed to offer hospitality to men of various
nationalities from time to time--Scots, Finns, Germans, Swedes, and
Norwegians--trekking up-country in search of a place to settle on.
"Will you dismount and tie up, then?" said my father; "and we'll see
what we can do.--Val, my lad, you will see to the horses having a feed?"
"Yes, father," was on my lips, when the Irish leader turned upon me
sharply with:
"Oh, ye're Val--are ye?"
"Yes," I said, rather sharply, for the man's aggressive manner nettled
me; "my name is Valentine."
"And is it, now?" he said, with a mocking laugh. "Ye're a penny plain
and tuppence coloured, I suppose? Coloured, bedad! Look at his face!"
"I don't see the joke," I said sharply.
"Don't ye, now? Then ye soon will, my fine chap. Let's see, now; how
old are ye?"