The heavy wagon came out into the clearing, and drew near to the one small house, which was standing within it. The house was of logs, and corresponded exactly to the description which Barzilla had given of it. As yet, no human being had been seen, and the sergeant was just about to declare that the place was not inhabited when the door was suddenly opened and a man stepped forth to view. Evidently he had heard the sounds of the approaching wagon, and had come out to investigate.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered, powerful-appearing man. He was clad in a pair of rough trousers and high boots, which looked as if they might have belonged to some Hessian dragoon at one time, and the red flannel shirt which partially covered his chest could not entirely conceal the great bunches of muscle there. In one hand he grasped a pistol, and the expression upon his face might well have caused a man with a much stouter heart than Little Peter had to tremble.
The sergeant glanced inquiringly at the lad by his side, and Little Peter nodded his head in reply to the unspoken question. The man was Fenton himself,—the one who had robbed the widows and the fatherless, had made the midnight attacks upon the defenseless people of Old Monmouth, had hanged trembling women from the limbs of trees, and tortured his helpless victims into revealing the places where their scanty savings had been concealed. He had been the leader of bands as desperate and wicked as himself, and the suffering and woe which the good people of the surrounding region had experienced at his hands can never be told. And now the man himself stood waiting for the wagon, in which were Little Peter, himself a victim of the pine robbers' cruelty, and his companions, to approach.
"Hold on!" called Fenton. "You're movin' too fast. What ye doin' here?"
The sergeant stopped his horses, and as Fenton approached and stood near the wheel, he said, "We've come down here to look for a man we want to find."
"I reckon I'll do as well as any other. Look at me! Ye're not goin' any farther, ye might as well understand that now as any time. Got a bottle with ye?"
The sergeant drew forth a bottle of brandy and handed it to the outlaw. Fenton took it, and raised one foot upon the hub of the wheel. As he lifted the bottle to his lips, his eyes fell upon Little Peter, who had been endeavoring to conceal himself behind his companion.
Instantly recognizing the lad, he shouted, "You here? You? I thought I left ye dead up by the mill the other day! You rascal! One whipping wasn't enough, was it? I'll give ye what ye deserve now!"
Fenton reached back with one hand to grasp the pistol he had thrust into his pocket when he had taken the bottle. Quickly the sergeant kicked the foot of Ted Wilson under the straw, and instantly the men arose, and before Fenton could act, had brought their guns to their shoulders and the reports rang out together.
The pine robber pitched heavily forward, and lay dead upon the sand. Oh, it was horrible, awful! A sensation of sickness, of faintness, swept over Little Peter as he looked down upon the face of the dead outlaw.