“There he goes, Duff! There he goes! Stop him, Duff, stop him!”
Duff, likewise taken by surprise, and being under the impression at first, as he heard the leaves rustle under the flying boy’s feet, and saw a shadow streaking among the trees, that an Indian was after him, was given such a scare to begin with, and was so chagrined directly afterward, when he discovered what had taken place, that his wrath rose in a mighty storm.
Quilling’s yelling at him, instead of pursuing or shooting at the boy himself directed Duff’s rage toward the former landlord. Paying no attention to John, he rushed madly up to Quilling. With the most frightful curses he called the old fellow “a driveling idiot” and worse names, and ended by slapping him full in the face.
Even this vile insult, however, served only to make the erstwhile tavern keeper beg the more piteously for mercy, and try the harder to excuse himself to the man he feared. Never was there a more abject coward.
Considerably astonished that he was not pursued, though he heard the epithets Duff rained upon Quilling, John soon slackened his pace to a brisk walk, and looked about to get his bearings. He had lost sight of the trail when approaching the fallen tree, and in his haste to flee from the spot when discovery was no longer to be escaped, he had run in the wrong direction. The position of the sun, however, and the mossy bark on the north side of the trees, aided him in soon finding the right course, and in due time he reached Neb. Then he remembered that his shovel had been left in the grave intended for Ichabod Nesbit, and rode back for it.
The short afternoon was nearly gone, and it was likely that at any moment Duff and his two choice friends would come upon the scene. Still John resolved to try to complete the work of burying Nesbit’s remains. He stooped and picked up the shovel.
Bang—splank! A bullet shattered the handle of the tool and knocked it from the lad’s hands. At the same instant he saw Duff and Dexter running toward him, Quilling bringing up the rear.
In a trice John was mounted and away amid the frantic yells of Quilling and the harsh curses of Duff, and though Dexter took aim at him, he did not fire.
“It’s the charm—it’s the charm!” cried Quilling tremblingly. “Three times that pesky young rooster has got away from us this day! It’s bad luck—bad luck to follow him now!”
John heard the cry as he sped up the hill, but he knew Duff would ignore it, and feeling sure that he would be followed clear to the cabin, sooner or later, he lost no more time in hurrying toward home. He did not even stop in the gully to hitch Neb to the abandoned cart, as he had planned, but hurried by. It was now so late that he would not reach the cabin until after dark at best, and to try to thread the uncertain trail with the cart after darkness came was out of the question, even should he encounter no wolves, which animals were not unlikely to attack him if given half an opportunity after nightfall.