The young scout now stepped forward and saluted the commander.
“Ah! You are here, Douglas,” was Harrison’s pleasant greeting. “You have come for your orders?”
“I have, governor.”
“Very well. To-day you and the Wyandot are to remain near me. I’ll use you as interpreters.”
Ross bowed and withdrew. As he sauntered away from the tent, he felt that he ought to return and inform the commander of his experience of the night. Yet what had he to tell? Perhaps his imagination was magnifying a molehill into a mountain. He halted—half turned about—then proceeded upon his way.
Just as he was passing a point midway between the governor’s quarters and his own mess-fire, he discovered Bradford in earnest conversation with a burly negro—an ox-driver, named Ben. The scar-faced scout and the black man were standing between two of the covered wagons. The darkey’s brutal visage was alight with pleasure, as he jingled a number of silver coins that Bradford had just dropped into his outstretched palm. Ross heard the white man say:
“Now, Ben, if you don’t do what you’ve promised—well, you’ll hear from me. Git away from here now—we mustn’t be seen together.”
Douglas screened himself behind a wagon. Now he knew why Bradford’s husky tones had sounded so familiar in the governor’s tent. It was the same voice he had heard at the river-side. The scar-faced scout was the mysterious personage he had met the night before.
The negro slyly slipped away from the spot. A half minute passed. Then Bradford boldly stepped from his place of concealment. As he did so, he swept a hurried glance around him—and fastened his keen eyes upon Douglas.