"Into the bresh an' load up, boys," said Castor, as he coolly leveled his second pistol at a wounded red-skin, who was slowly crawling away from the spot of death.
The revolver cracked, and the Indian made no further motion. Then, with a grim smile, the old scout also entered the bushes.
A most welcome surprise here awaited the fugitives, with the exception of Castor. The mouth of a cave was revealed behind the bushes, and into it the women had already made their way.
This, then, was why Castor had made what had seemed, at the time, a suicidal move, in not taking to the timber motte, and Wilson now expressed his regret at having spoken so harshly upon that occasion.
"'Taint no matter, Ed. I don't blame you, for it did look a lettle queer. But it was our on'y chaince, ye see. They'd 'a' cabbidged us thar, easy; but in here we kin hold our own ontel they starve us out. This is whar Fred 'n' me killed the b'ar this spring—'member, don't ye?"
"Yes, but—what's the matter now?"
Castor had turned around to peer through the bushes while speaking, and then with a bitter curse of angry chagrin he leveled his pistol and fired. Another curse broke from his lips, as he half-parted the bushes, as though he would have sprung forth.
"What is it—are they coming again?" and the two men pressed forward.
"No—he's gone, the pesky imp! He was a-playin' 'possum all the time, I do r'ailly b'lieve! Don't b'lieve he was tetched ary time!"
"Who—what do you mean?"