Truly, he had good cause for being wrathy, and for feeling thoughtful, too, in the revelations so complacently made by Wesley Sprowl.
But he did not pause long; then throwing his rifle across his shoulder, he struck through the woods at a rapid pace, heading his course toward the rendezvous of "White Crees," the leader of the band who had rescued him from the "Twin Sycamores."
CHAPTER IX.
THE INCENDIARY.
It was some time after dark before Clay Poynter neared the rendezvous of the border outlaws, despite the speed at which he traveled. But he was in time, and after satisfying the sentinel of his identity, he hastened at once to the presence of "White Crees," as his aged friend was universally termed by his men and comrades.
He was lying at full length upon the ground, one elbow propping his head as he gazed thoughtfully into the fire, crackling merrily before him. There was a kind of half-frown upon his face and a fiery gleam in his full black eyes, that told Poynter he was unusually excited about something.
"Well, sir, what is it?" quickly asked Crees, as he raised his head at the young man's approach.
"Bad news, I fear. This retreat is known—"
"The devil!"