“Wal, they’d do the same by you if they ketched you. It isn’t a week since I heard old Davis himself say he’d hang you if ever he laid hands on you.”
“Let him look to himself!” muttered Butler, all the ferocity of his nature breaking forth in his glance. “My men shall tie him hand and foot, and burn him in his own house.”
“When will you start?”
“About midnight. By that time the whole neighborhood will be quiet, and my men refreshed—we’ve had a long march, and they are tired enough, but always ready for this kind of work.”
“There’s no trouble about it,” said Shoemaker; “we’ll make it as merry as a wedding.”
The face which had long watched them disappeared from the window, and the fugitive fled lightly down the road towards the fort.
“Will you, indeed?” muttered Sim White, as his long legs measured off the ground at a tremendous pace. “We’ll see about that! I’ve got you this time, you old Tory; I haven’t watched you two months for nothing! Old Davis, indeed! and to think I wanted to lick Jim—only jest wait a little!”
The two men continued their conversation in fancied security. At length Butler flung himself upon a rude settle, with his Indian blanket under his head for a pillow, and fell into a heavy slumber. The farmer remained in his chair, but after a time his head fell forward, the pipe dropped from his fingers, and he also sank into a quiet sleep.
Sim White made no pause for breath until he reached the little block-house which was dignified by the name of fort. His violent knocking speedily aroused the sentinels, and the door was cautiously opened.
“A pooty set of fellers,” exclaimed Sim, as he rushed in panting and exhausted, “to be snoozing here, while all our lives are in danger! Call up Colonel Wesson!”