"This is hardly the time for joking, Castor," rather crustily interjected John.
"Right, you be. Thar—I'm sober as a judge. But findin' thet honey-bird thar, jest sorter sot me crazy. Did, fer a fact! Jest sot me right on eend, like. Made me feel good—kinder squirmish all over, an' it had to come out or bu'st; which wouldn't 'a' be'n pleasant—the bu'stin' part, I mean. But come—the old folks 'll be mighty oneasy ontil we git back. Gi' me your hand, honey, an' you, John, keep cluss op."
"Where do you intend going, Castor?"
"To your house, a'ter t'others."
"Our house is like that of Mr. Wilson's—on fire, or burned to the ground by this time. You can't see the light from here; but we did, a little back."
"You don't—then whar's your folks?" exclaimed Tobe, anxiously.
"Out in the woods, somewhere. Fred gave the alarm—he overheard the plan as he was coming through the woods toward our house. He sent me on. He sent me ahead to warn Mr. Wilson, but Dusky Dick's devils captured me. I saw him set fire to Wilson's house."
"Then how'd you git away?"
"He set off after you—along the Lower Trace—and sent me with two Indians, as guards, to join Sloan Young's gang. We heard your horses, and one of them ran out to see who it was. I killed the one left with me. You finished the other, just now," hastily explained John.
"You don't tell me! Gi' me your hand—no, thar hain't no time for that now, but you're a trump, anyhow, if I do say so. It's a peskier job 'n I 'lotted on, durned if 't'aint, now! Hev to use right smart head-work to git out on it, too, ef we don't mind. Drat the imps—what's got into 'em, anyhow?" and Tobe spoke in a voice of intense disgust.