FYFFE SOUNDS HIS NOTE.
"Hark!"
It was Poynter who made the exclamation, abruptly checking the outlaw's words. The three men slightly bowed their heads, as if listening intently, while their eyes sought each other's faces. The sound came again.
It was the loud exclamation of a man—such as one would make in driving a refractory yoke of oxen. And yet it could scarcely be that, for the ground surrounding, whence the alarm proceeded, was rough and broken, difficult even for a man to traverse upon foot.
"What is it?" whispered Crees.
"'S-sh! Listen."
"Dod-rot y'ur ongainly copperossyty, kain't you walk chalk? Gee, that—gee, you 'tarnal critter! Dod burn ef I don't rouse you up wi' a saplin'. G'long, now, you creepin' snake!"
A tirade of such adjurations, followed by what sounded like the crack of a whip, and then a strange sort of muffled howl. Such were the noises that aroused the curiosity of the trio, in the little glade.
"Scratch dirt, now, you'd better. 'Tain't much furder, or durned ef I b'lieve we'd git thar to-day, the way you does creep. Wuss'n any jackass I ever see'd! Git up an' git, now, less I'll go ahead an' snipe you 'long arter me. How'd thet suit, eh, ole stick-in-the-mud? Shoot at an honest feller ag'in, w'u'd ye? Guess ye won't, no more. Hoop-la!" and then came several more cracks, accompanied by groans and half-choked howls.
"It's Jack," whispered Crees. "Wonder what he's up to?"