"Well. What do you want?"
"We're go'n to come on board of yer."
"No, you are not. You are all dead men if you attempt it."
"What do you want to shoot us fur? We ain't a go'n to hurt yer."
"You fired first, you infernal chicken thieves! We know what you are," replied Dan, who thought it best to class them with these depredators—men who frequent the western and southern rivers, plundering boats or houses, as opportunity presents.
"We ain't no chicken thieves."
"Keep off. We know you," repeated Dan.
This conversation was followed by another pause, during which the careful skipper had another opportunity to examine the weather indications. They were decidedly unfavorable. It was probable that a squall, if not a tornado, would soon burst upon them, and he deemed it prudent, even at the risk of being shot, to haul down the jib-topsail, the staysail, and the gaff-topsails. This he succeeded in doing; but he had scarcely finished the job, without giving himself time to stow the extra sails, before he saw the boat of the pursuers dashing rapidly towards the Isabel. The slave-hunters had at last made up their minds what to do. They meant to risk the encounter.
Just then a sharp flash of lightning illumined the lake, followed by the muttering thunder. A few fitful flashes of lightning had before glared on the gloomy scene; but now it gleamed fiercely from the sombre clouds, and the heavy thunder rolled an almost incessant peal.
"Ready! Ready, now!" said Dan, earnestly, as he sighted his gun at the trio in the boat, which the lightning plainly revealed to him.