With long-legged leaps, Simon Lake came bounding into the circle of light formed by the scattered embers.
“What in tarnation’s the matter, Tarbox, yer red-faced codfish?” he shouted.
“Matter enough,” roared back Zeb Hunt, who had been doing some rapid investigating. “Them boys has got away.”
“Got away!” echoed Simon Lake furiously, yet incredulously.
“Yep. Death’s trussed up like a Christmas turkey back thar in ther cave, an’ ther young varmints hes vamoosed.”
“Scatter, boys! After ’em!” bellowed Lake. “By Juniper, I’ll give a hundred dollars to the one that gets ’em.”
“Alive or dead?” asked one ruffian, with an ugly scar running from brow to chin down his weather-beaten face.
“Yes,” snarled Lake, “alive or dead. They know too much fer me ter lose ’em now. And then if they git loose all our plans go ter tarnation smash. Go on, Zeb, arter ’em. Git on the scent, my bullies. As for you,” grated out Lake, casting a terrible look at poor Tarbox, who had succeeded in extinguishing his clothes, “I’ll attend to you later.”
The fellow sank to his knees and began quivering out pleas for mercy. But Lake turned away with a savage laugh.
“You’ll blubber worse then that afor I git through with yer, by Chowder!”