was conscious only of a
great wind, of an invisible power that bound him to that bull's tail, of
a dull roar in the ears, a blur in the eyes----

Simon leaped the hedge of fruit-hung grapevines, poised for a second on
the brink of the river's caving bank--his feet together, his neck
stretched. Then, the red of him disappeared. And, after it, the more
vivid tuft at the end of his tail.

CHAPTER XXVIII

A CHANGE IN PLAN

It was Old Michael who fished the interpreter from his unwelcome bath.
Choking with rage and spewing muddy water, Matthews was hauled into the
stern of a pirogue. There, while the pilot rowed slowly to the Brannon
shore, he stretched his sorry, bedrabbled figure--a figure in striking
contrast to that of an hour before. His handkerchief hung upon one ear,
his red shirt clung, his buckskin trousers, dark and slick from their
sousing, bellied with water let in at the band; his bright-topped boots
spurted like pump-nozzles, his pale hair straggled and dripped into his
eyes.

When the boat touched at the steamer-side, he raised himself to look
back. Simon was leisurely ascending the cut, and reaching to left and
right for tender wisps of vine. Matthews gave his hard laugh. "I'll make
meat of _you_," he promised savagely. Then he turned to Michael.

The Irishman was leaning back, steadying his craft against the bank with
one hand, holding his stub pipe out in the other. His blowzy face was
blowzier than ever. Down it, from his closed lids, ran the teardrops,
chasing one another into the black-notched cavern of his mouth.

Here was a culprit handy to the moment's anger. Matthews arose in his
squashing boots. "You lop-eared son-of-a-gun, who you laughin' at?" he
demanded.

The cavern widened till the face was split in two. "W-w-w-_ah_!" gasped
the pilot.

"Maybe you think it was funny," said the interpreter, with suave heat.
Cunning deviltry distorted his features. And, stepping forward in the
boat, he kicked Michael on a bunion.

Pain sobered the pilot. With a roar of "Howley smoke!" he swung his
paddle aloft.

The interpreter was too quick for him. Like a frightened muskrat, he
sought the water, floundered to a solid footing, and waded out. "You
_will_ monkey with a buzz-saw!" he taunted. "_Jus' wait._"

Clinging to his injured foot, Old Michael rocked himself and cursed. But
not for long. He was soon rambling toward the barracks. "For," he
argued, "there's more 'n wan way t' kill a cat