Each of them were well mounted, and they galloped along the road at a merry pace.
Bob Bertram was in ecstacies at his unlooked-for liberation, and swore eternal friendship and fidelity to Wildfire Ned.
He told Ned all, or at least as much as he knew, about his father’s murder, and what had happened to him on that eventful night.
He also described the stranger who had exchanged clothes with him so minutely that Ned could not, or at least did not, for a moment hesitate to say that Redgill was the man, for he knew that from the garments Bob was then wearing.
He did not say much to Bob concerning it, however, but bit his lip, and vowed to have revenge on Redgill the first opportunity that offered.
The three riders stopped at a roadside inn, and knocked up the landlord.
The old man opened his door with a trembling hand, and in the course of conversation informed his guests that they must beware of the Skeleton Crew, for a party of that terrible band had called there that very night, ransacked and robbed the place of all it had, and were well-nigh murdering everybody.
“Was Death-wing, their chief, along with them?” asked Ned.
“He was,” said the old publican, shaking; “but oh! young man, don’t smile, for if you had been as close to, and seen as much on ’em as I have to-night, you would tremble in your shoes.”
“I?” said Wildfire Ned, laughing boisterously. “Not I, landlord, you are much mistaken. Nothing in the world would give me greater pleasure than to meet this same Death-wing to-night.”