"Wal, ef so be you fellers is satisfied, I'm shore I be," grunted Jack, lying back upon the grass.
"But what do you think I'd best do next, Mr. Crees?" asked Poynter, after a slight pause, a little anxiously. "I think, with Sprowl's evidence, here, I need not hesitate about showing myself openly once more."
"You have a good deal to work against down there, yet, and I think you'd best wait a little, and see what we can get out of our friend, yonder," responded Crees, thoughtfully.
"Well, I suppose I must, though it's hard to be lying idle when such charges are hanging over me," sighed Poynter.
CHAPTER XII.
POYNTER FINDS SOMETHING.
It was in the afternoon of the same day which Fyffe had so signalized by his turkey-hunt. The prisoner, James Meagreson, was occupying the same position in which Sprowl had done penance some hours before. He had been left here by his captors to ponder upon his situation and reflect as to which should be his future course, whether to persist in his denials or acknowledge defeat and submit to his triumphant enemies with such grace as he could muster.
That his meditations were far from being the most pleasant imaginable, one glance at his sullen, stern features would evidence, and there was a fiery, vindictive glow in his small black eyes that boded ill for Poynter's hopes—a look that had proclaimed a determination to "die game," and to hold them in defiance while breath lasted. Only at intervals a softening tinge would appear, as if his heart failed him, or a desire to remedy the wrongs that he had committed, so far as lay in his power, had assailed his mind.
But these moments were few and far-between, and then, as if the tightly-drawn cords began to pain him yet more intensely, the scowl deepened, and he gritted his teeth in the excess of his fury. The moment had passed, and the deadly hate now raged without alloy.