"My mind is still in solution as to that," the Colonel gravely answered. "It has not yet crystallized. If he were not the poor half-wit he is, we would by all means. Under the circumstances, I hardly think we have the right. Yet, after all is said, he may be just the sort who should be put out of harm's way. However, the most we will do will be to frighten him out of the country;—unless he stands his ground."
"He'll doubtless do that, and open on us when we come in sight," Bob suggested. "Of course, he'll know what we're after."
"I think it likely," the Colonel replied. "Let me caution you against unnecessary risks."
Some two or three miles from Arden the dirt road sharply began its climb into the Knobs, and through this rough and wooded foothill country of the farther Cumberlands, scarred by cliffs and ravines, they rode in silence. At last Bob spoke.
"We're not far off. His shack is somewhere in here."
They were riding at a quick walk, alert, watching up each ravine for signs of habitation, when suddenly a man, rifle in hand, stepped out two hundred yards ahead of them. A lightning touch of rein and spur, and both horses had sprung instantly apart, while the two repeaters flew with exact precision to the riders' shoulders. To their surprise, however, the man raised his hand.
"What do you make of this?" the Colonel asked in a cautious tone, when they had recognized Dale advancing, instead of the expected Potter.
"Squirrel hunting," Bob answered. "He told Zack."
Dale came with the long stride peculiar to his people, the stride with which they cover thirty miles a day and think it no great walk.
"Good mawnin'," he called, in a drawling voice. "There's no game in these parts."