CHAPTER XXIX.
VIGILANTS.
The long day is ended at last; the sun has set in a bank of dim clouds. There is no moon as yet, and that orb, which is due above the horizon in exactly eight minutes, by an authentic almanac, will scarcely appear at her best to-night, for the leaden clouds that swallowed up the sun have spread themselves across all the sky, leaving scarce a rent through which the moon may peep at the world.
The darkness is sufficient to cover my journey, and the hour is yet early—too early for birds of the night to begin to prowl, one might think; yet, as I approach Jim Long's cabin, I encounter a sentinel, dimly outlined but upright before me, barring the way.
"Hold on, my—"
"Jim."
"Oh! it's you, Cap'n; all right. Come along; we're waitin'."
I follow him into his own cabin, and stand beside the door, which some one has closed as we enter, while Jim strikes a light. Then I see that the cabin is occupied by half a dozen men.
"Pardner," says Jim, setting down the candle, and indicating the various individuals, by a gesture, as he names them, "this 'er's Mr. Warren, the captain o' the Trafton vigilants."