There was no further shouting down the trail, but, after a short interval, there was a noise near at hand, and a muttered imprecation as someone stumbled over a rough spot in the path.
“Halt! who comes there?” abruptly barked the sentinel.
There was a dead silence for a half-moment. Then came the gruff response out of the pitchy dark, “Who the blazes wants ter know?”
“Who comes there?” again challenged the sentinel.
“Keep yer shirt on!” was the answer. “We’re the ’rig’nal iron-jawed, brass-mounted, copper-bellied Injun chasers from the wilds o’ Sangamon County. Folks down that way call us ‘Sudden Death.’ So stand back an’ give us room to pass!”
“Not till you properly identify yourselves,” cut in Lieutenant Clark grimly.
“Say, feller, listen har! I take six rattle-snakes an’ a bar’l o’ whiskey fer breakfast, when I’m feelin’ my us’al self. Blood’s my fav’rite drink, an’ the moans o’ the dyin’ is soothin’ to my ears. But ef yer gwine ter git yer back up ’bout the matter, I’ll break down an’ state that my name is Pete Perkins.”
“Pete Perkins!” burst out Bill Brown, unable to conceal his surprise. “Why, you double-dyed ol’ rascal, are you still pollutin’ the earth?”
“Whoopee! that sounds powerful like ol’ Bill Brown, the Kaintock border-man with the petrified gizzard.”
“You appear to know this party, Bill,” laughed Lieutenant Clark. “Let him come on, sentinel.”