This island was the refuge, the fortress of the terrible outlaws of the Missouri, with whom we have made acquaintance.
Originally it had been selected by the Government as an outpost, but the partisans had first taken it and made it impregnable.
As the outlaws rarely interfered with citizens of the United States, generally very poor in those regions, the Government, well aware of its impotence to dislodge the pirates, pretended to look upon them as irregular troops doing service.
But the outlaws knew that if the authorities only had the chance they would be exterminated.
But that part of America was little peopled, and few except trappers and wanderers knew anything of its capacities. The outlaws, therefore, to a certain extent, were pretty certain of impunity for all their actions for the time.
A hundred horsemen were camped on the strand of which we have spoken; their horses were picketed near their fodder, around the campfires numerous groups were talking or sleeping, while on every hand walked sentinels.
In a hut composed of whittled boughs and mud, a man sat on a buffalo's head, consulting papers from a large pocketbook. Another man stood respectfully by him, awaiting his orders. The first man was Captain Tom Mitchell, the other was Camotte.
A sentinel kept guard in front of the cabin.
It was about four o'clock in the morning. The stars were beginning to pale in the sky, the sky was covered by fleecy white clouds. Day was at hand; a fog rose from the river, and covered the camp as with a funeral pall. It was cold.
"I say," cried Tom, "I am frozen. Are you asleep, Camotte?"