“And you may have old shoulder-straps,” added Curt. “Come, why wait longer?”
The four had gained the branches of the pine and were cautiously ascending toward the supposed refuge of the scout.
Lieutenant Boggs and his companion were intently watching—the first the progress of his men, the other the motionless object in the top of the tree which he fancied was the hiding fugitive.
As silently as shadows the scouts crept upon the unsuspecting foe.
Old Fatality was unarmed, as far as weapons of war were concerned, but his long, talon-like fingers worked convulsively as if eager to clutch the throat of his victim.
The butts of a pair of revolvers protruded from the belt of Cavalry Curt.
In the midst of their anxious watch the Confederates felt themselves seized in grasps of iron and in spite of their futile resistance they were borne to the earth.
Before either of them could cry out, a hand was placed over their mouths and a low voice whispered in their ears the single word.
“Surrender!”
Meanwhile the four were cautiously approaching the top of the pine wondering that their prey should keep so quiet.