“Off on a devilish trip, no doubt; it’s durn quiet thar—just like the grave, an’ thet chap stands thar like a statoo. What in thunder makes all so quiet?”
“Pop,” whispered Eben, “p’r’aps thar’s a scheme a-workin’. Mebbe thar’s a dozen men tucked away in this here fringe of willows, awaitin’ fur us ter rush out; then they’ll jest mor’n pepper us.”
“Mebbe. Take two or three along with yer, and beat the bushes. Mind yer eye, now.”
Eben selected three sturdy friends, and they crept and skulked the entire circuit of the island, one party going to the right, the other to the left. They met on the opposite side, having seen nothing. Then they hurried back to the leader. He heard their story, cocked his gun, and said:
“Now thar’s got ter be a charge, and we’ll take ’em by surprise. When I shout and run, follow like wild-cats, but hold your loads. Now!”
He took a quick, true aim at the man, fired, and sprung out into the clearing, followed by the rest. Up the narrow path they dashed, ready to meet and vanquish their foe. To their surprise the sentinel did not fall nor move, neither did he raise his head, but still leaned in the door with his head down.
They rushed toward the cabin and were nearly there when their eyes beheld a sight which caused them to stop in their tracks, astonished.
They saw the cabins were empty; they knew no living robber was on the island; but what startled them more was that the mysterious man was already dead.
Dead! Stiff and cold, with a gashed throat, numberless knife-wounds in his body, with his clothing cut and torn—with a bullet-hole in his forehead, there stood Griffith the scout, propped against the door. He had not died without a struggle, they could see, as there were indications of extreme violence. Griffith was dead!
They searched the cabins through and through, but beyond some very scanty, poor furniture they were entirely empty. They were as far from Katie as ever, and Walter was frantic.