"Yas—it's old Tobe, fer shore. You know 'im, I reckon," chuckled the scout, grimly, evidently pleased at this symptom of alarm.
"I did not know you were here, but it don't matter. Who is the head man among you? You or Wilson?"
"You kin talk to Ed, here. I'll sorter lis'en. Shoot off yer mouth now, lively, an' then travel. Your comp'ny ain't overly welcome to none on us. D'y' hear?"
"Then, Wilson," added Morgan, not noticing the insulting tones of Castor, "what're your terms? You must see there is no use in your trying to hold out against us any longer."
"Isn't there? Your men didn't seem to think so, a while since, anyhow," sneered the settler.
"But we have been reinforced since then. Sloan Young is here with his band, and—"
"You lie, Dusky Dick, durn ye. You'll never see Young ontel the devil hes his due. It's thar you'll find him, fer I put a eend to his trapsein', this very night jest passed," retorted Castor.
What Dusky Dick's answer would have been, was never known, for at that moment a sharp report rung out from close behind Wilson, and then with a choking groan the doomed renegade swayed feebly to and fro for a moment, then sunk in a lifeless heap to the ground, the hot blood spouting from his left breast.
Quickly turning, the two borderers beheld the strangely convulsed features of their young comrade, John Stevens, as he glared out upon the dead man, the smoke still issuing from his rifle-muzzle. There was a peculiar gleam in his eyes that told he was half crazed.
The reproaches of the old scout died away upon his lips, for the young settler then sunk back, pale and breathless, his features strangely distorted. He was in a fit, probably brought on by the terrible trials of mind, added to the deed of vengeance he had just accomplished.