“Did you speak to me, stranger?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Murdock; “I should like to have a few minutes’ conversation with you if it is agreeable.”
The stranger shot a rapid glance at the face of the young man, but he saw nothing therein to alarm him.
“Certainly,” he replied, after thinking for a moment.
“This is my shanty,” said Murdock, referring to the log-house before whose door they stood. “Come in; we can talk inside without being overheard.”
There was a strange expression upon the face of the other. He cast a rapid glance around him, and laid his hand upon the handle of the hunting-knife at his girdle, as if he had half a mind to stab the young man—who was fumbling with the rude fastenings of the door—and then make a bold break for freedom and the woods. But the momentary glance around convinced him—that is, if he had such an idea—that to carry it out would be hopeless, for a dozen or more of the settlers were between him and the forest. So, with a muttered curse upon his ill luck, he followed Murdock into the cabin.
Murdock produced a flask of whisky and a couple of tin cups, and motioning his rather unwilling guest to draw near the table, he pledged him with the fragrant corn-juice.
The stranger tossed off the fiery liquor with a moody brow. He suspected that he was in a trap, and he felt far from being easy.
“Do you know that your face is strangely familiar to me?” asked Murdock, with a meaning smile.
“Indeed! that is strange,” responded the other, half inclined to spring upon the young man, for he felt a strong apprehension that his disguise was penetrated.