“Will you give me that dagger?” Late asked, although, as he afterward explained to his companions, “I was mad enough inside to bite the rascal’s head off. To think the fool thought he could bribe me.”
“No, I couldn’t do that,” the prisoner replied; “but I’ll give you this,” and he drew a purse from his pocket, shaking it so that Late could hear the clink of the gold.
“How much is that?” the lad asked, with well-feigned eagerness.
“See, they are all sovereigns,” Master Turnbull said, opening the purse and dropping the coins into his hat one by one. “Ten,” he added. “More money than you are ever likely to have again, and it’s all yours if you’ll only be careless enough to let me get away.”
“Careless ’nough to let you get away,” the young scout repeated in a voice loud enough to awaken his comrades. “I’ll show you I’m not to be bought, you old fool, at any price,” and he advanced angrily toward the spy with gun upraised, as if to strike him down.
But before he could do so Turnbull leaped to his feet and made a dash for the nearest tree, evidently hoping to get that between himself and his guard, and so effect his escape. But he was not quick enough. Bringing his rifle to his shoulder, Late fired, and the fugitive fell headlong to the ground. In another moment all three lads were bending over what appeared to be a lifeless body.
“Get a torch,” Ira cried, thrusting his hand beneath the unconscious man’s shirt.
When Joe came with a light, he added:
“He is not dead. His heart still beats. Help me, Late, and we’ll take him to the shack.”
Gently they carried him to the shelter, and made careful search for the wound.