“Out there in the bresh, hid away so snug that nobody won’t ever find him,” was the taunting reply. “Them guns is hid out there too, but not in the same place. Matt come purty near gettin’ you as well as the canoe. I heard him say that he almost overtook Joe while he was a runnin’ through the woods with you in his hand.”
“Yes; and Matt would have got me over the head if he had been able to run a little faster.”
“An’ Joe would have got a hickory over the back, I tell you,” said the old scow. “How do you reckon that that skiff I sent to the bottom of the pond feels by this time?”
“You didn’t send him to the bottom of the pond,” said I, angrily. “You tried hard enough, but you didn’t make it.”
The bait-rods and the boats took up the quarrel, and while I listened, I waited impatiently for the return of the hunting party. Presently I heard a slight rustling in the thicket at the head of the bay, but it was not made by the persons I wanted to see. It was Matt Coyle that stuck his ugly face out of the bushes, and his bleared and blood-shot eyes that traveled from one to another of the boats that lay before him. Then he turned and whispered to some one behind him and the whole family came and stood upon the bank. Their sudden appearance made it plain to all of us that the squatter and his backers, after “scattering like so many quails,” had run just far enough in different directions to bewilder their pursuers, after which they “circled around” and came back to the bay, intending to continue their flight in the scow, which would leave no trail that could be followed. It was evident, too, that there had been an understanding among them before they separated; otherwise they would not all have been there. When Matt’s gaze rested upon the trim little boats before him, he said in a low but distinct voice—
“Whoop-ee! Jest look at all them nice skiffs, will you? Ain’t we in luck though? Never mind the scow. She’s done good work fur us, but we’ll leave her behind now an’ travel like other white folks do. Old woman, you go round to all them boats an’ pick up the grub what’s into ’em; Jakey, you an’ Sam ketch up the poles an’ cookin’ things an’ every other article you can get your two hands onto. Dump them that’ll sink into the water an’ chuck them that won’t sink as fur into the bresh as you can, so’t they won’t never find’ em no more. While you are doin’ that, I’ll pick out two of the best boats fur our own.”
“Say, pap, what’s the reason we don’t carry off the things in place of throwin’ on ’em away or sinkin’ ’em?” asked Jake.
“’Cause we can’t sell ’em, an’ we don’t want to be bothered with totin’ ’em. You will save time if you do jest as I told you. We want to get away from here as sudden as we can.”
“An’ what’ll we do with the boats that we don’t take with us?” continued Jake. “Will we bust ’em up?”
“Now, jest listen at the fule!” exclaimed Matt, angrily. “The noise we would make in bustin’ on ’em up would bring ole Swan back here a runnin’; an’ I don’t care to see him with all them other fellers at his back.”