“Essence of sin!” exclaimed the scout; “mocker o’ God—tool of the devil, I’ve a notion to pulverize ye to dust!”
“There is no doubt that you and your friends all feel like it, Tumult, since that little hanging affair didn’t shut off my wind,” said the renegade, with a smile of defiance. “I told the settlers the day they hung me, that when I addressed them again, it would be under different circumstances. So it was. The affair at lake Wildwood is but the beginning of my vengeance upon those who essayed to destroy my life.”
“The beginnin’ o’ yer vengeance!” exclaimed Old Tumult; “ha! ha! ha! that’s a good ’un. I think it’s the eend, too, fur when ye ’scape the clutches o’ Old Tumult, jist whistle, will ye?”
The bold, wicked, defiant renegade laughed loud and bitterly, then replied:
“It’s useless to throw words at one another, Tumult, for my day has not yet come, unless you shoot me upon this spot.”
“No, no, Satan,” returned Old Tumult; “I will hand you over to the settlers, and let them bid ye, ‘git ye hence.’”
“Then bind me hand and foot, or any way, so you release your bony claws from my flesh,” returned Sherwood, with a shrug of pain.
“Ho! ho! ho!” roared Old Tumult, and he shook the renegade as though he had been a kitten; “why, man, ye’ve only felt the weight of my hands.”
With the assistance of Town., the renegade was securely bound hand and foot, with thongs made of the buck-skin leggings of one of the dead savages.
The renegade glanced toward the two dead Indians with a look of regret, yet when his eyes met those of the two maidens, his features wore no downcast nor defeated look. Dick Sherwood had no fears of death in any form. He was a moral coward as his deeds betokened, but physically speaking, he was utterly reckless in his cunning and daring.