"I reckon I'm just that much ahead of the hounds," said the wood-cutter, with a grin. "That hoss-thief won't never dare to come after his saddle, and mebbe it'll bring me in a few dollars for tobacker. Farewell, and be sure and drop in as often as you come this way. Look out for yourself, you Louisanner feller."
The path that ran through the woods to the big road leading from Cape Girardeau to Lesterville, the place where Rodney's companions would take leave of him and turn toward Ironton, was all of three miles long, and so narrow that they were obliged to ride in a single file. Mr. Westall remarked, with a careless laugh, that it was a good thing for them that the people living in the vicinity were mostly Confederates, for the woods on each side of the path were thick, and would afford the nicest kind of cover for a bushwhacking party.
"I suppose there are plenty of Union people between here and your settlement?" observed Rodney.
"Lots of 'em; and they are not only dead shots, but they know every hog path in the woods and are as sneaking and sly as so many Indians. They'll fight, too. We know that to be a fact, for we've got some of them for near neighbors."
"Then perhaps it is just as well that you have me instead of Percival with you," said Rodney. "If you had taken him a prisoner to Pilot Knob, what assurance have you that you would not have been bushwhacked on the way?"
"None whatever; but we would have been willing to take our chances on it."
The Emergency man spoke carelessly enough, but Rodney noticed that he had not neglected to make preparations for a fight. The single revolver his belt contained had been transferred to the night holster, and the strap that usually passed over the hammer to keep the weapon in place, had been unbuttoned so that the heavy Colt could be drawn in an instant. This made Rodney feel rather uneasy. Perhaps he would not have been so very frightened at the prospect of a fair stand-up fight, but the fear that somebody might cut loose on him or some member of his party with a double-barrel shotgun before any of them knew there was danger near, was more than his nerves could stand. He was glad when they left the woods behind and rode out into the highway; but it wasn't half an hour before he had occasion to tell himself that when the Emergency men took leave of him and turned off toward their own settlement, the woods would be the safest place for him. They were riding along two abreast, Mr. Westall and Rodney leading the way, when, as they came suddenly to a narrow cross-road, they found themselves face to face with a long-haired, unkempt native mounted on the leanest, hungriest mule Rodney had ever seen. He rode bare-back, his spine bent almost in the form of a half circle, his body swaying back and forth, and with every step his beast took he pounded its sides with the heels of his boots—not with the object of inducing the mule to quicken its pace, but because the motion had become a habit with him. He was surprised and startled when he found himself so close to the Emergency men, and partly raised the muzzle of the heavy double-barrel shotgun he carried in front of him; but a second glance seemed to relieve his fears, for he grinned broadly, and waited for the horsemen to come up.
"Wal, ye got him, didn't ye?" said he; and the words went far to confirm the fear that had haunted Rodney Gray ever since he found that Tom Percival had gone off with the roan colt, leaving his own well-advertised horse behind him. This ignorant backwoodsman, who didn't look as though he knew enough to go in when it rained, had recognized the horse the moment he put his eyes on him.
"Oh, this isn't the man at all, Mister—a—I declare I have disremembered your name," exclaimed Mr. Westall.
"I don't reckon ye ever knowed it, kase I never seed hide nor hair of none of ye afore this day," replied the native, with another grin. "But it's Swanson, if it will do ye any good to hear it. I live back here in the bresh about a couple of milds."