Such was the state of mind of all on board when, at dawn the next day, Joe Hartley, who was at the wheel, brought all hands up out of the cabin in all stages of dress and undress by a cry of:
"Sail ho!"
The "Nomad" was staggering along under her canvas, making a pretty picture, but gaining woefully few miles. Her build was not adapted for sailing and her progress was snail-like. At the rate she was going it might be weeks even before the coast was sighted.
The sail that Joe had seen was as yet some distance off, and, as well as could be made out, it was a schooner.
"What if she should be the 'Nettie Nelsen'?" wondered Nat.
"Well," rejoined Cal grimly, "I reckon we'd have nothing much to fear from those chaps in a fair fight. They're all right when they kin make use of treachery and deceit, but in a square scrap they are no account. I reckon we proved that when the posse rounded 'em up in the canyon."
"That is so," agreed Nat, and in this opinion the others concurred. Just the same, it gave them queer little thrills to think that by a strange chance they might be coming to close quarters with the men who had done them so many wrongs.
Breakfast was prepared by Ding-dong and despatched without their being any appreciable distance nearer to the strange schooner. But a short time after the meal a brisk breeze sprang up and the "Nomad" went staggering right gallantly along before it.
The schooner at the same time drew closer to her, both vessels sailing with the wind on what sailors call "the beam."
"She's nodt mein schooner, dot is a sure for certain fact," pronounced Captain Nelsen, after a prolonged scrutiny of the distant craft through his marine glasses.