Farley was ready to fling back an angry retort, but Douglas headed him off with:
“We meant no harm, lieutenant. And we thank you for your consideration.”
Much mollified, the officer resumed his rounds. In silence the three friends reached their place of bivouac, and, rolling themselves in their blankets, sought repose. But what Ross Douglas had seen and heard rendered him still more wakeful. He racked his brain for a solution of the mystery—but found none. Who was the man he had encountered—and what had he been doing at the river-side?
“Treachery of some kind is afoot,” the young scout murmured to himself. “Perhaps I should have caught the mysterious personage and delivered him into the hands of the guard. But what could I have proven—what charge could I have brought against him? And now I’ve not the faintest idea who he was, whence he came, or what was his purpose. He tried to disguise his voice; he altered his language. He sought to conceal his identity—and he succeeded. There’s nothing to do but watch and wait. But black treachery of some kind is among us.”
An hour passed. Ross Douglas’s lids were closed, and his breathing was deep and regular.
CHAPTER III.
At four o’clock the next morning the troops—who had slept upon their arms—were roused from slumber and ordered to fall into rank. There they stood, guns in readiness, until the first faint rays of the cold, gray dawn dispelled the enveloping darkness and revealed near-by objects with clear-cut distinctness. Governor Harrison realized that he was in the enemy’s country. He was well aware that the wily foe with which he had to deal preferred to attack in the early morning. He had not served under Mad Anthony Wayne in vain. Nor had he forgotten the lesson of St. Clair’s awful surprise and defeat.