It was only when the hunter insisted upon it that our hero would consent to stop and take a few mouthfuls of food.
There was a cool deliberation in the movements of Moffat that was strangely in contrast with the nervous restlessness of the lover. In fact they were just the men to engage in the enterprise. In the afternoon the trail showed signs of an increased gait upon those who were being pursued. This discovery gave Kingman increased anxiety. Finally the gathering darkness compelled them to give up the pursuit.
“Just what I expected!” exclaimed Kingman, in despair. “We may now as well yield up, and go home.”
The ranger touched him on the shoulder, and pointed ahead.
“What does that mean?”
The glimmer of a camp-fire was discernible through the trees. That it was the camp-fire of those whom they were searching for, there could not be a moment’s doubt.
“All now depends upon keeping cool,” said the ranger. “We will steal up until we get a good view. You may take the Indian and I will take the renegade.”
Side by side the two crawled cautiously forward. The Indian was preparing supper, while Pete Johnson was lying upon the ground, smoking a pipe. Irene sat on a fallen tree, her wrists bound together, and her head bowed as though she was giving away to her great woe.
Abe Moffat looked at Kingman, and whispered so that he was just able to hear him.
“Take your man, and be sure that you don’t miss, or he may not miss me.”