“We’ve just ’bout come to it,” gravely remarked Cousin. “I ain’t no talkin’ cuss, but I’ll say right here that I sorter like you, Morris. If things could ’a’ been different, an’ I could be more like other folks, I ’low we’d been good friends.”
“We’re the best of friends, Shelby. As long as I can think I shall remember how you came with me into this trap to help rescue the girl.”
“Shucks! Don’t be a fool!” he growled. “That ain’t nothin’. Once I bu’sted up a Mingo camp to git my dawg. They’d caught the critter an’ was cal’latin’ to sculp him alive. Got him free, too, an’ the damn pup was that stirred up by his feelin’s that he couldn’t tell who was his friends, an’ he chawed my thumb somethin’ cruel.”
He stepped to the loophole, and after peering out mumbled:
“Changin’ mighty smart.”
I glanced out and the ridges were losing their outlines and the valley was becoming blurred. Cousin mused.
“It’ll be comin’ right smart now. Don’t overlook anything.”
We made a last examination of flints and primings, and Cousin softly arranged the heavy door bar so it might be displaced with a single movement. He startled me by abruptly standing erect and cocking his head to one side and remaining motionless.
“The old Englishman!” he exclaimed. “He ain’t fired a shot, or tried to talk with us for a long time.”
I went to the front end of the cabin and put my eye to the peephole. The small window showed black. I called to him several times and received no answer. There was only one conclusion. A chance ball through a loophole or a window had killed the old fellow. Cousin agreed to this. A signal at the mouth of the valley brought us to our toes. It was about to begin. The signal was answered from the ridge behind us.