I uttered a sigh of relief, and then, taking a good deep breath, I gave a hail which brought half-a-dozen men to us, headed by Sergeant Briggs, who uttered an ejaculation of surprise as he held up the wagon lantern he carried and let the light fall on our faces.
“Why, you gents haven’t run up against that savage sham Paddy, have you?” he cried.
“Yes, Sergeant,” said Denham, speaking faintly; “and he got the better of us.”
“He has, sir, and no mistake.”
“Have you caught him, Briggs?” I asked anxiously.
“No, my lad; I only wish we had. I never saw such shots as our men are! Wasted no end of cartridges, and not one of ’em hit. Did nothing but draw the enemy’s fire, and they have been answering in the dark. All waste.”
“But Moriarty?” asked Denham.
“Moriarty!” said the Sergeant scornfully. “I’m Morihearty well sick of him, sir. It’s all easy enough to see now. Instead of getting away, as we thought, after hammering poor Sam Wren with a stone, my gentleman’s been in hiding.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes it is, my lad. Then he’s been sneaking about in the dark, going about among the men like a sarpent, and then among the horses, helping himself to the reins with his knife.”