“If they'd all had spunk enough to come,” said Barton, “we might ha' made four parties, and gone out on each road. As it is, we're only strong enough for two.”
“Seven to one?—that's too much odds in Sandy's favor!” cried a light-headed youth, whereat the others all laughed, and some of them blushed a little.
Barton bit his lip, and with a withering glance at the young man, replied,—“Then we'll make three parties, and you shall be the third.”
Another quarter of an hour having elapsed, without any accession to the troop, Barton reluctantly advised the men to get their arms, which had been carelessly placed along the tavern-porch, and to mount for the chase.
Just then Joe and Jake Fairthorn, who had been dodging back and forth through the village, watching the roads, made their appearance with the announcement,—
“Hurray—there's another—comin' up from below, but it a'n't Gilbert. He's stuck full o' pistols, but he's a-foot, and you must git him a horse. I tell you, he looks like a real buster!”
“Who can it be?” asked Barton.
“We'll see, in a minute,” said the nearest volunteers, taking up their muskets.
“There he is,—there he is!” cried Joe.
All eyes, turned towards the crossing of the roads, beheld, just rounding the corner-house, fifty paces distant, a short, broad-shouldered, determined figure, making directly for the tavern. His face was red and freckled, his thin lips half-parted with a grin which showed the flash of white teeth between them, and his eyes sparkled with the light of a cold, fierce courage. He had a double-barrelled musket on his shoulder, and there were four pistols in the tight leathern belt about his waist.