“All of that.”
“Then we have ten times as many before us yet. Can we do it in four days?”
“I’d like to make it in three,” Late declared. “We can’t get to the fort any too soon, an’ my long legs are good for the thirty-odd miles a day. How is it with yours?”
“I reckon they’ll hold out.”
“We’ll start early, make brief stops, an’ travel late, if need be; but we must deliver the message to Captain Swartwout by Saturday night.”
At these words the listener behind the big tree leaned out sufficiently from his place of concealment to shake his fist at the boys, after which, as he shrank back into the gloom again, he muttered to himself: “Perhaps you will, youngsters; but not if David Daggett can prevent it.”
He still stood there when the lads stretched themselves out upon the fir boughs, and fell asleep. Then, smiling grimly, he slipped the pack from his back, sat upon it with his back against the tree, and waited.
An hour passed; the heavy breathing of the occupants of the shack told the old man that the young scouts were sleeping soundly. He arose cautiously, leaned his rifle against the pine, drew the hunting knife from his belt, and, gripping it between his teeth, slowly crept on all fours toward the camp.
Gaining it, he paused and listened. A loud snoring told him that the lads were unconscious. Again he smiled, and creeping noiselessly to the open end of the rude shelter, he gazed at the sleepers. They lay with their feet toward him; and far enough apart for him to crawl between them, a feat he accomplished so stealthily that they were not disturbed.
Then, rising to his knees, he took the knife from his teeth with his left hand, clutched the handle firmly with his right, and raised it aloft, intending to plunge it rapidly into first one and then into the other.