"I've changed my mind," said Crane, abruptly; "I may go there myself, soon."
Miles smiled.
"I thought it might be something urgent," he said, "since it led you to come to my tent at midnight."
"I thought you would be starting away early this morning."
"Well thought of, Bill Crane; but it is only fair to tell you that I don't believe a word you say. I have one thing to say to you before I go, and you had better bear it in mind. If you harm a hair of Tom Nelson's head, and I believe you quite capable of it, I will never rest till I have found you out and punished you for it."
"I am not afraid of you, John Miles," retorted Crane, but he looked uncomfortable.
"You will have cause to be, if you injure Tom."
Miles walked off, leaving behind him a bitter enemy.
"I hate him—him and the boy too!" muttered Bill Crane. "If I dared, I would put my mark on him before he leaves the camp."
But Crane did not dare. He knew that he was in a very critical position. His safety depended on the silence of two persons—one of whom would soon be gone. He was not aware that Ferguson also knew of his attempted crime, or the danger would have seemed greater. However much he thirsted for vengeance, it would not do to gratify it now. He must bide his time.