“Well, if we do,” asserted Tom defiantly, “we’re apt as not to give him another dunking in the swamp. He prob’ly needs a bath again by this time.”
With this, they walked off through the tepees. After a short search, down by the river’s rim, they found an Indian brave, who readily agreed to set them once again across the stream. Arriving on the other bank, they turned their faces toward the distant settlement. A bright, full moon made the path clear before them; and in the cool of the April evening, they stepped out with long, sure strides that fairly ate up the miles.
CHAPTER 7
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Furious Fists
A NARROW shaft of yellow lamplight shone from the wide-open door of the Mud Turtle, as Tom and Ben Gordon approached the unsavory gambling den and grog-shop at the edge of the swamp; and a wild medley of songs, shouts, oaths, threats and cat-calls assailed their ears.
“Big crowd at the Turtle tonight,” spoke up Tom, just a tinge of uneasiness in his tone.
“Sure is,” agreed Ben. “Listen to that hullabaloo, will you! They’re fairly lifting the roof.”
“S’pose that blackguard of a Fagan is in there, Ben, as Bill warned us?”