“Don’t be too sure, Cato; there are sharp men, old Indian-fighters, among them. We must be vigilant—very wary. How came they to suspect me?”
“Dunno, sar. Foun’ ’em red-hot dis mornin’, all bunched up reddy ter foller on de trail. Trail! dem fellahs! sho!”
“Did you speak to them?”
“Speak to ’em? Golly, Mars’r Cap’n, I’se de fellah dat is leadin’ ’em; I’se de fellah dat am gwine ter fotch ’em right hyar ter der Shadder Swamp!”
The captain whipped out a revolver.
“So you are, are you? Then you live,”—cocking the weapon and aiming it at the negro’s head—“then you live just one half of a second longer.”
The negro threw up his hands in alarm, and yellow with fear, gasped out:
“G-g-golly, Mars’r Cap’n, I’se done—I’se wrong.”
“Wrong? Mind your speech! Ha! don’t you dare to move or I’ll pepper you! Now, you villain, tell me what you mean.”
He was in a dangerous state of mind, as could be told by the ferocious smile he wore. Cato, knowing him well, was alarmed.