“Captain!” He saluted again. “What is it, sir?” he half whispered, as if in apprehension.
“Put on your jacket, Shannon. Come with me!”
Shannon obeyed hurriedly. Half stripped, he stood a fine figure of young manhood himself, lithe, supple, yet developed into rugged strength by his years of labor on the trail.
“What is it, Captain?” he inquired once more.
They were apart from the others now, in the shadows beyond Lewis’s fire. Shannon had caught sight of his leader’s countenance, noting the wildness of its look, its drawn and haggard lines.
His commander’s hand thrust in his face a clutch of papers, folded—letters, they seemed to be. Shannon could see the trembling of the hand that held them.
“You know what I want, Shannon! I want the rest of these—I want the last one of them! Give it to me now!”
The youth felt on his shoulder the grip of a hand hard as steel. He did not make any answer, but stood dumb, wondering what might be the next act of this man, who seemed half a madman.
“Five of them!” he heard the same hoarse voice go on. “There must be another—there must be one more, at least. You have done this—you brought these letters. Give me the last one of them! Why don’t you answer?” With sudden and violent strength Lewis shook the boy as a dog might a rat. “Answer me!”
“Captain, I cannot!” broke out Shannon.