“It can’t make much diff’rence now, whether we git up thar the night, or take it leezyurly in the cool o’ the mornin’. Since you say ye don’t intend showin’ yourself ’bout the mission buildin’, it’ll be all the better makin’ halt hyar. We kin steal nearer; an’ seelect a campin’ place at the skreek o’ day jest afore sun-up. Arter thet me an’ Ned ’ll enter the settlement, an’ see how things stand.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” responds Clancy, “If you think it better for us to halt here, I shan’t object; though I’ve an idea we ought to go on. It may appear very absurd to you, Sime, but there’s something on my mind—a sort of foreboding.”
“Forebodin’ o’ what?”
“In truth I can’t tell what or why. Yet I can’t get it out of my head that there’s some danger hanging over—”
He interrupts himself, holding back the name—Helen Armstrong. For it is over her he fancies danger may be impending. No new fancy either; but one that has been afflicting him all along, and urging him so impatiently onward. Not that he has learnt anything new since leaving the Sabine. On its banks the ex-jailer discharged his conscience in full, by confessing all he could. At most not much; since his late associates, seeing the foolish fellow he was, had never made him sharer in their greatest secret. Still he had heard and reported enough to give Clancy good reason for uneasiness.
“I kin guess who you’re alludin’ to,” rejoins Woodley, without waiting for the other to finish, “an’ ef so, yur forebodin’, as ye call it, air only a foolish notion, an’ nothin’ more. Take Sime Woodley’s word for it, ye’ll find things up the river all right.”
“I hope so.”
“Ye may be sure o’t. Kalklate, ye don’t know Planter Armstrong ’s well’s I do, tho’ I admit ye may hev a better knowledge o’ one that bears the name. As for the ole kurnel hisself, this chile’s kampayned wi’ him in the Cherokee wars, an’ kin say for sartin he aint a-goin’ to sleep ’ithout keepin’ one o’ his peepers skinned. Beside, his party air too strong, an’ the men composin’ it too exparienced, to be tuk by surprise, or attacked by any enemy out on these purayras, whether red Injuns or white pirates. Ef thar air danger it’ll come arter they’ve settled down, an’ growed unsurspishus. Then thar mout be a chance o’ circumventin’ them. But then we’ll be thar to purvent it. No fear o’ our arrivin’ too late. We’ll get up to the ole mission long afore noon the morrow, whar ye’ll find, what ye’ve been so long trackin’ arter, soun’ an’ safe. Trust Sime Woodley for that.”
The comforting words tranquillise Clancy’s fears, at the same time checking his impatience. Still is he reluctant to stay, and shows it by his answer.
“Sime, I’d rather we went on.”