“Dick, I was drunk,” said Skip.
“Well, it is no time for recriminations,” remarked Denton, “but I would just like to set my eyes on Cole. You can bet the gates of the nigger heaven would open to receive a permanent boarder.”
“Suppose we were to enlist some of the coons down at the shore in the search?” suggested Brodie. “They would be more likely to get track of Sam than I.”
“You couldn’t get one of them to stir or give you any information,” answered Dick, “the fellow has so terrorized them. He knows these woods thoroughly, and at the present moment he may be hid not a thousand yards away.”
Sam Cole was not ten yards away.
With his eye glued to the chink before used by Nick Carter, the negro took in all that was passing between the inmates of his cabin.
Cole grinned when Denton spoke of killing him on sight, and, indeed, he was tempted to enter and confront the pair.
Sam was heavily armed, and, besides, he was a very daring fellow.
“I will go in,” he muttered, and he did so.
Skip’s pistol was out in a jiffy.