The outlaws were upon the alert, as the quick, sharp challenge testified when the outer lines were reached. Dismounting with a half-groan, Poynter relieved Fyffe of his "backload," and after securely binding the man, dropped him upon the ground, asking the sentry to keep an eye upon him. Then Poynter threw himself beneath a tree, and almost ere his limbs were still, a fast-increasing rumbling, as of very distant thunder, told how sound was his slumber.
The sun was an hour above the horizon when Poynter again opened his eyes, although he declared he hadn't five winks of sleep. But after a cool bath at the creek close at hand, he felt greatly refreshed, and joined White Crees, who was sitting near one of the fires, smoking a pipe.
"Up for all day, Poynter?"
"Well, I hardly know, to tell the truth," laughed Clay. "I can tell you better after I have some grub."
"There's part of a cold turkey, or here's venison; take your choice."
"Hot meat for me, even if I do have to turn cook to get it," said Poynter, cutting several generous slices from the prime saddle that hung suspended from a tree near at hand. "But, hello, I forgot! What has been done with my prisoner that I brought in last night, or, rather, this morning?"
"I put him in a safe place," returned the outlaw. "The poor devil was nearly dead this morning. You put him with his head down hill, and I really believe that another hour would have finished him."
"'Twouldn't be a very great pity," muttered Poynter, his mouth full of meat, "after I have got out of him what I want to know. And that makes me think—where's Jack?"
"Off on a hunt, I believe; a gang of turkeys passed down the creek this morning, and he's after them. But why?"
"Nothing; only from a hint that he dropped last night about one Meagreson—"