"It's all right," whispered Bob in reply; "come on."
"Who is it, I say?" repeated Bristow in still more earnest tones.
"Why, don't you know Dodd? Hand me your carbine."
"Oh!" said Bristow with a great sigh of relief. "It is all right, isn't it? Here you are."
Holding his carbine by the strap, Bristow passed it down to Bob, who promptly slung it upon his back. The latter then pushed up his sleeves, moved back a little from the stockade, and when Bristow swung himself down by his hands and dropped lightly to the ground, Bob stepped up and took him by the arm.
"I don't need any help," said Bristow, who had landed squarely on his feet. "But I say, Dodd—"
"We'll talk about it as we go along," interrupted Bob. "But not a loud word out of you, unless you want to be gagged."
"Why, good gracious, it's Owens!" gasped Bristow, reeling back against the stockade. He did not ask what Bob was doing there or why he had seized him, for he knew without asking.
"Yes, it is Owens, and the men you saw ride out of the gate with me this afternoon are with me now. Here's one of them," added Bob as a soldier named Loring stepped up and took his place in readiness to catch the next deserter who came over the stockade.
Just then the sentry on the inside placed his mouth close to one of the cracks between the logs and asked, in a cautious tone,