"Bet ye! It's rough ridin' though, but bein's it's shorter, 'twon't take no longer. What's the biz?"
Thereupon Poynter succinctly stated what he had heard while eavesdropping the two precious scoundrels, adding:
"It isn't that I care so much for the house, but we must take that Sprowl a prisoner. He knows enough to clear me, and if he can prove what he said, to bring this Dement or Meagreson to justice; and that's just my hand, now."
"We'll do it! Ef not in the act, we'll nab him at his own shanty. Then a taste o' the med'cin' 'at they gi'n you'll bring 'im to tarms, I reckon. Leastwise we kin try it. Meagreson, ye said?"
"Yes; do you know him?"
"Oh no, I guess not! Lord, won't the ol' man be glad!"
"Crees, do you mean?"
"Look out! Hyar's the cut-off. Foller me cluss an' look out for yur head."
They now diverged from the road, into a path just allowing one horse to pass at a time, and the riders were forced to stoop low along their horses' necks to keep from being struck by the low-hanging limbs. This fact effectually put a stop to all conversation, for the time being.
Presently the ground grew more open, although they still continued in single file, and as they rose the crest of a hill, Fyffe exclaimed, in a glad tone: