“Hell and furies!” growled the renegade, stamping his foot, “this has been a pretty night’s work. I don’t believe more than half of my braves effected their escape. In fact, I’m sure they didn’t. Curse that man, McCabe! If I had him here I’d wring his neck, for I believe he has played me false!”
This was all that was heard. The next moment Simon Girty and the Indian had plunged into the woods, and were gone.
CHAPTER XIV.
CAGED!
“That wur a lucky escape fur you, old hoss,” said Nick Robbins, as the three lurkers came out of their concealment. “Simon Girty have got it into his head ’ut ye’re false, an’ ef he’d ketched ye hyur it ’ud went kinder hard with ye, I take it.”
“Curse it!” hissed McCabe; “every thing is going wrong, just at the time that I thought success certain!”
“Wal, I wouldn’t take it to heart in that style,” laughed Robbins, patting him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, an’ be yerself ag’in. It’s true the red-skins have been nicely licked by the pale-faces, an’ the hull gang scattered to the four winds, but it don’t foller ’ut the jig’s up.”
“Don’t it?” snarled McCabe. “I should like to know what remains to be done, but to go home? I presume you will follow Girty now, and leave me to pursue my way alone.”
“Thar’s jest whar ye’re wrong,” said the hunter. “I won’t leave yer till mornin’, nohow, an’ I tells ye once fur all, the jig ain’t up! True, as I said afore, the reds have been licked and run away—true, Girty jest now come to shore, an’ made off like the devil wur arter him—true, we’re left hyur alone to fight our own battles, but, fur all that, I repeat, the jig ain’t up!
“Do explain yourself,” said McCabe, seeing something in the hunter’s mind worth drawing out.