"Git out!" laughed Peterson; "don't you understand that trick? They're showin' themselves half a dozen times over to scare us into knocking under. Thar's just 'bout a hundred of 'em, not one more, and they ain't a little scart themselves."
"Who is at the head of them?"
"Do you see that feller standin' off at one end like? kinder hid behind that tree?"
"Yes; but he isn't dressed like a chief."
"'Cause he ain't a chief, nohow. Don't you know him?"
"No, I never saw him before."
"I reckon you have. That ar' gentleman is Mr. Thomas McGable, that you've been wantin' to see so long."
At mention of this notorious renegade's name, there was a sensation among the whites. Abbot, Mansfield, and others strained to get a view of him through the loop-holes, and expressions of indignation were freely made.
"How nice I could pick him off," whispered Peterson to Mansfield, and he ran his eye along the glistening barrel of his rifle.
"Don't do it—don't do it," admonished our hero. "Remember your promise to Abbot."