“I shall have to talk it over with my partners here,” returned Obed. “They’re equally interested with me.”
“Better do so now.”
“I won’t till evenin’, when we have more time.”
Fletcher rode away under the impression that Obed was favourably disposed to his plan.
“When I get the money,” he said to himself, “I can decide whether to let the fellow go or not. I don’t care for the boys, but I’d like to give this Yankee a good flogging, he’s so confoundedly sarcastic. Plague take it, the fellow doesn’t know when he’s down, but talks as if he was on equal terms with me.”
Meanwhile, though Fletcher did not know it, the train of bushrangers had steadily advanced to the neighbourhood of the place where the government escort were encamped.
In fact, he was ignorant that they were so near. But Obed knew it, and he was watching his opportunity to apprise his friends of his situation. Harry had noticed the same thing. Lest he should make a premature revelation, Obed placed his hand to his lips, as a sign of silence. Harry understood, and seemed indifferent, but his heart was beating fast with excitement.
It was certainly an oversight in Fletcher not to have ascertained the situation of the government encampment. He was under the impression that it was in a direction opposite to that in which they were moving, and this determined his course. He was therefore wholly unconscious of danger, and tranquil in mind, though his situation was critical.
Obed was puzzled to know in what manner to get the necessary intelligence to his comrades. Chance gave him a suggestion. The man next him wore round his neck a whistle—designed doubtless to use in case of emergencies. It was of rather peculiar shape.
“That’s an odd whistle you’ve got there, my friend,” he said; “where did you get it?”