“Very well, old fellow, I will not. Ugh! what’s that down there—that fellow dead?”
The officer leaned out as far as he could so as to get a good look at the motionless figure at the foot of the cliff.
Drew glanced at the figure too, and nodded his head.
“Who shot him—you or Dickenson?”
“Neither of us,” said Drew gravely. “It was the work of one of your fellows; he fell from up there. But what about the party who crossed by the ford?”
“Oh, we’ve accounted for them. Cut them off from the ford and surrounded them. Fifteen, and bagged the lot, horses and all.”
“You were a precious long time coming, though, Roby,” grumbled Dickenson. “We seem to have been firing here all day.”
“That’s gratitude!” said the officer. “We came as quickly as we could. Nice job, too, to advance on a gang well under cover and double covered by the strong body across the river. There must have been sixty or seventy of them; but,” added the captain meaningly, “sixty or seventy have not gone back. How many do you think are down? We’ve accounted for a dozen, I should say, hors de combat.”
“I don’t know,” said Drew shortly, “and don’t want to.”
“What do you say, Dickenson?” asked the captain.