“Up there to the pond,” replied Jake. “That Joe Wayring, he was fishin’, an’ we crep’ up clost to him afore he knew we was there, an’ then it would a made you laugh to see him take to the water an’ streak it through the woods with pap arter him. Don’t I wish he had ketched him, though? Do you see any thing onto my face?”
The old woman replied that one of his cheeks was slightly discolored.
“Joe Wayring done that with pap’s paddle,” continued Jake, “an’ I’m goin’ to larrup him for it the first good chance I get. I’ll l’arn him who he’s hittin’. Yes, this canoe is mine now, sure enough, for pap give him to me to keep. I’m goin’ to hide him out here in the bresh till I want to use him.”
This piece of strategy on the part of my new master made it impossible for me to take note of all that happened in and around the squatter’s camp during the next two days, for the evergreens partially concealed it from my view, and Matt and his allies talked in tones so low that I could not distinctly hear what they said; but on the afternoon of the third day I saw and heard a good deal. About three o’clock, while Sam Coyle was dozing on the bank of the creek and pretending to stand guard over the camp, he was suddenly aroused to a sense of his responsibility by seeing a light skiff come slowly around the bend below. Mr. Swan, the guide, handled the oars, and the man who sat in the stern was the owner of the Lefever hammerless that Matt Coyle had stolen and concealed in the bushes. They kept their eyes fastened upon the bank as they moved along, and Sam knew that they were looking for “signs.”
“An’ I’m powerful ’feared that they will find some when they get up here,” thought the young vagabond, trembling all over with excitement and apprehension, “’cause didn’t pap say that he couldn’t make the bresh stand up straight like it had oughter do, an’ that the bark was rubbed off in places? I reckon I’d best be a lumberin’.”
Sam turned upon his face and crawled off through the bushes, but not until he had seen Mr. Swan’s boat reinforced by four others, whose occupants were looking so closely at the shores as they advanced that it did not seem possible that a single bush, or even a twig on them, could escape their scrutiny. Sam lost no time in putting himself out of sight among the evergreens, and then he jumped to his feet and made for camp at the top of his speed. The pale face he brought with him told his father that he had a startling report to make.
“Be they comin’?” said Matt, in an anxious whisper.
“Yes,” replied Sam, “they’re comin’—a hul passel of boats, an’ two or three fellers into each one of ’em. The man you hooked that scatter-gun from is into Swan’s boat, an’ he looks like he was jest ready to b’ile over with madness.”
“Grab something an’ run with it,” exclaimed the squatter; and as he spoke he snatched up the frying-pan and dumped the half-cooked slices of bacon upon the ground.
For a few minutes there was a great commotion in the camp. Matt and his family caught up whatever came first to their hands, and presently emerged from the thicket, one after the other. They all carried bundles of something on their backs, and at once proceeded to “scatter like so many quails,” and scurry away in different directions. This was one of their favorite tricks—the one to which they invariably resorted when danger threatened them; but before they separated they always agreed upon a place of meeting, toward which they bent their steps as soon as they thought it safe to do so. It was no trouble at all for them to elude the officers of the law in this way, and even the guides, experienced as they were in woodcraft, could not always follow them.