"What do you want?" gruffly demanded McGable.
"Oh, nothing in particular. Dick has just gone off to see the doctor to get some medicine to take for the gripes he has just got, and I thought I'd look in to pass away time till he comes back."
"Where is he?" asked the man quickly, vainly striving to conceal his agitation.
"Just off here, a little ways. If you want to see him, I'll call him."
"Never mind."
"I s'pose now—umph!"
The last exclamation of Jenkins was perfectly involuntary, and caused by receiving a terrific blow from the foot of the renegade, directly in the stomach, which doubled him up like a jack-knife. As he gasped and rolled over upon the grass, McGable shot over his head like an arrow, and bounded away for the palisades. Nearly all the men were at the block-house, debating upon his fate, but several descried the flying fugitive, and shouted the alarm. An instant after he scaled the palisades, and Peterson and several other rangers sped across the clearing in pursuit. Dingle, who had nearly recovered, raised a regular war-whoop, and joined in the chase.
Late at night, several of the pursuers returned, moody and sullen with their ill success. In the morning, another made his appearance with the intelligence that Dingle and Peterson were still in rapid pursuit, but there was little hope of overtaking the renegade, as he possessed a wonderful fleetness of foot, and in all probability had given them the slip during the night.
So it proved. Some time after the two rangers returned and confirmed this suspicion. They had not even caught a glimpse of him after he crossed the clearing and entered the wood.