II
The Snare of the Fowler
It was at the early hour when the morning brings to the earth no warmth and but a dim and grudging light, that a sharp rap summoned von Rittenheim to his cabin door. Three men stood outside in the grayness, their horses tied to trees behind them. To his surprise, Friedrich recognized his guest of the previous evening.
"Ach, my good friend, you did not reach Asheville last night?"
Unconsciously he frowned as he realized that if these men wanted breakfast he would have to confess that there was nothing to eat in the house. At the thought his instinct of hospitality and his pride both suffered.
"Yes, Ah got to Asheville, and Ah've come back—fo' you."
The man entered the cabin and motioned to his companions, who stepped one to each side of the Baron.
"What do you mean?" Von Rittenheim spoke with amazement born of entire lack of understanding. His mind could not compass the treachery of the man to whom he had given his last mouthful.
"Ah mean that Ah'm a United States deputy-marshal, and that Ah 'rest you fo' retailing."