The dragoons started in hurried pursuit. Through the dim twilight the fugitive was hardly distinguishable. He had almost reached the woods—in another moment he would be safe, when the sharp, whip-like report of War-Cloud’s rifle was heard, and the fleeing man fell to the dust.
The next instant he was surrounded by his pursuers, who made a litter for him with their rifles, and carried him to the house. The injured man was bleeding copiously, and appeared to be seriously, if not mortally wounded.
“Who are you, and what were you doing here?” inquired the lieutenant, after seeing that the sufferer’s position had been made as comfortable as possible.
“What’s thet to ye?” was the surly reply.
“Come, come, my good fellow, you had better be a little more communicative, for I think your time is growing short.”
“What’s thet ye say?” exclaimed the man, with a sudden start.
“I fear your injury is fatal.”
“Do ye think so?”
“I do.”
“If thet’s the case, Tom Turley had better tell all afore he goes under, for he hez a purty good deal thet weighs on his mind.”