“Succeed?” exclaimed Robbins, in a tone of joyful triumph, as he stepped out of the light craft and shoved it under the bushes with the rest. “Succeed, did yer say? By thunder! the game’s our’n! We’ve got ’em in our clutches already, an’ we’ve only to wait till the comin’ o’ night to pick thar feathers. We couldn’t hope fur better success. The durned cusses are goin’ to stay thar ’bout two hours arter dark, an’ I warrant they won’t be on thar guard, ’cause I’ve made ’em b’lieve thar ain’t no Injuns ’thin fifty mile of ’em. Kirby Kidd an’ Wapawah wur both thar, an’ they was sucked in as easy as t’others. Yes, kumrid, they’re our game, sure ’s shootin’!”
“Good!” cried McCabe, slapping his thigh. “You’re a trump, my friend, and if, through your exertions, I come in possession of the proud beauty, Isabel Moreland, I shall ever feel indebted to you. But I will go at once and tell Girty how well we have succeeded so far. You remember he told me to report? I presume you will remain here, and keep watch until I return?”
But Nick Robbins made no reply to this. He had become suddenly very silent and very grave, and he even seemed to be struck with alarm!
McCabe, however, failed to observe this, and flinging his rifle across his shoulder he started away, whistling gleefully.
“Stop!” called out the hunter, hesitatingly. “Had—hadn’t I better go, an’ let you stay hyur?”
“No,” replied McCabe, cheerfully. “I wish to speak to Girty about something else, and may as well go myself.”
And so saying, he resumed his whistling and walked on.
“By heaven!” exclaimed the hunter, when he was left alone, and he dropped the butt of his gun upon the ground in a half despairing sort of a way. “Can it be that I am going to fail, after all? He has gone to report to Simon Girty what we have done, and of course my name will be mentioned, and I will be exposed. What shall I do? There is no room to hope that he will not speak to Girty of me. Why did I not think of this before? Alas! I fear my project is nipped in the bud, and, if so, my life is in danger. The villain may come back at the head of a dozen Indians, to make mince meat of me, for my deception, and yet I must wait for him at all hazards.”
The hunter was evidently sorely troubled. He threw himself upon the ground to await the return of McCabe, and was so nervous and restless he could not lie still. He trembled in a state of feverish impatience, and every minute seemed an hour to him.
At last McCabe came trudging back. He was entirely alone, and whistling as gleefully as when he had gone away. Nick Robbins rose to meet him eagerly, feeling the first spark of hope he had felt since the fellow’s departure. He gazed keenly at the whistling profligate as he came up, but saw nothing that told him his artifice had been discovered.