“Stop, or we’ll fire,” cried Frank.
But the figure kept on running. Frank was in a quandary. Of course he had not meant to carry out his intention and the fact that the man kept on running put him in an awkward position. They could not kill the man; yet if they did not fire he would escape from them and it was most essential they should capture and question him if it could be done.
Ben Stubbs raised his rifle and leveled it. Frank caught his arm and dragged it down.
“None of that,” he said sharply, “if we can’t get him without shooting him we’ll have to let him get away.”
Ben laughed.
“Don’t git excited, shipmate,” he remarked coolly, “I was only going ter give him a scare. Once more Ben raised his rifle and just as the fugitive was vanishing from view sent a bullet whistling over his head that nicked off several twigs and sent them scattering in a shower on his neck. With a loud screech of terror the fleeing figure flopped down and groveled on the ground.
“I’se a British subjec’.” he yelled, “don’t do me no harm, massa, I’m a subjec’ of the King.”
“Get up, you black rascal,” roared Ben, for by this time they had come up to the groveling figure and saw that he was even blacker than the redoubtable Pork Chops, who had run back to camp at top speed as soon as they had sighted the fugitive.
“Get up,” he went on, “we are United Statesers, and the king won’t do you no good now. Who are you and what do you want around our camp?”
Tremblingly the negro got to his feet. He was a strange figure. A palpable negro he yet wore the garb of a Seminole Indian. His shirt, with its tail flapping outside a pair of buckskin trousers, bright-colored turban, and buckskin moccasins were the customary clothes of the tribe.