“W’y, ding-it-all-to-dangnation!” Farley exclaimed excitedly. “The nigger’s come back. An’ Cap’n Wilson’s captured him an’ got him in charge.”
“Where did he capture him?” Douglas asked quickly.
“Right behind the gov’nor’s tent—the dang sneak was a-hidin’ in the shadder of it.”
“And he returned to murder the commander,” Ross muttered under his breath. “So that, at least, was a part of Bradford’s plan; and it has miscarried. Who is that man—an agent of the British? He’s foiled for the present, at any rate. But what does he know of me? Why was he so agitated when he learned my name? And no doubt he’s at the Prophet’s Town, impatiently awaiting the news that the governor is assassinated. Thank God, he’s doomed to disappointment!”
Gradually the noises of the camp died out. Wrapped in their blankets and with their guns at their sides, the soldiers stretched themselves around the fires and fell asleep. The wind moaned dismally; the flames cast grotesque shadows over the sleeping forms. In the outer darkness the sentries paced their lonely beats. The murmur of shouting savages and barking dogs came in on the wings of the fitful gale, telling that the inhabitants of the Prophet’s Town were still astir. Then the fickle wind veered to another point of the compass—and all was still. Suddenly the silence was broken by the voice of a lusty singer. The sleepers stirred uneasily as they heard in their dreams:
“The Injins hankers fer my scalp,
To sell to the highest bidder;
An’ when I’m dead an’ in my grave,
My wife ’ll be a widder!”