“I know that the woods about here are tolerable thick, and that Matt is a boss hand at hiding,” replied the guide; “but he will find that there’s a heap of difference between dodging a couple of townies, and in getting away from a lot of men who have lived in the woods ever since they were knee high to so many ducks. Go on, Joe. What else do you know about Matt Coyle?”
The rest of Joe’s story related solely to the events of the evening, and it did not take him long to describe them. When he concluded the guide was almost as angry as he and his chums were. The idea that that worthless vagabond should threaten to beat such a boy as Joe Wayring, simply because he had showed the courage to defend himself when he was assaulted! The guide made no remark, but there was a look in his eye that would have made the squatter uneasy if he had been there to see it.
“It’s too late to do any thing to-night,” said he, at length. “I reckon you boys have got something good to eat in them lockers? I thought so. Well, suppose we go ashore and camp.”
Joe and his friends readily agreed to this proposition. They had spent five days and nights in their boat, and they longed for a good, sound sleep on a bed of balsam-boughs, with the spreading branches of some friendly pine for shelter instead of their water-proof tent. They were not afraid to go into camp on shore now that they had the stalwart guide for company. Matt and his boys would not be likely to show themselves as long as they knew that he was with them; but the trouble was, they didn’t know it, although they were in plain sight when the boys built their fire on the bank, and laid their plans to pay them a visit before morning.
CHAPTER XVII.
A BATTLE IN THE DARK.
AS OUR three friends and their backwoods companion were old campaigners, they did not spend much time in getting ready for the night. A roaring fire was started, the jack-lamp hung upon a neighboring tree, and by the aid of the light thus afforded them, Joe Wayring, who had by this time got into a suit of dry clothes, cleaned the fish which Arthur and Roy had captured during his absence; Arthur Hastings fried them and made the tea; Mr. Swan prepared the bacon and pancakes; and Roy cut the balsam boughs and arranged the beds. In less than three quarters of an hour after they drew their boats upon the beach, they sat down to a supper that would have tempted any healthy boy to eat, no matter whether he was hungry or not.
“Now, Mr. Swan,” said Joe, when the dishes had been washed in the clear waters of the pond, and the tin bucket, which contained the supply of fish for breakfast, had been hung up by a string so that the minks that were sure to come around during the night could not steal them, “tell us a story, please.”
“About what?” inquired the guide, as he filled his pipe.
“Oh, about the first panther you ever shot.”
“Or about the bear you killed with a club while he was running off with one of your pigs,” suggested Roy.