That was the fact of the case. Rations were growing very short in the enemy’s camp, and if the end had not come pretty soon they would have been obliged to surrender, since it was impossible to get to where their provisions had been cached with such great labor preparatory to this campaign.
Even to our friends, who had no such miseries to fret them, the situation was becoming extremely monotonous and annoying. Max was glum and anxious. Sandy had lost his humor. Morris would growl softly at himself first for letting Old Bob get away with a single unbroken bone, and then for having allowed that kid, as he called Len, to go on alone to town in the storm. It was tedious enough to be shut up in this cabin, in the midst of such miserable weather, and in hourly danger of a bullet in one’s brain, but when to that was added the worry over Len’s safety, the suspense became nearly unendurable.
THE FIGHT AT THE FORD.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE FIGHT AT THE FORD.
“I tell you what it is!” exclaimed Morris, as Wednesday morning brought no tidings, and the clouds began to break away, “if that kid, or somebody else, don’t show up to-day, I’m going to look him up. I oughtn’t to ’a’ been such a dod rotted fool as to let him go nohow.”
No one opposed an objection; in fact it would have done no good if they had, since Morris was his own master, while at the same time, every one hoped he would be saved the journey.
The two went to work after breakfast, as usual, in the tunnel, and rejoined Sandy, who had combined sentinel with kitchen duty, to eat a famous dinner about one o’clock. The sun had been out an hour or two, and the creek had fallen so rapidly, that Max thought it might now be crossed at a pinch.