"You are not a patriot," broke in Cade Renard; "you have proved it already!"
"You say that," I retorted, "because Jack Mount, the highwayman, gives me the Boston greeting—'God save our country!'—and I do not reply? What of it? I'm at least patriot enough not to pretend to be one. I am patriot enough not to rob my own countrymen. I can say 'God save our country!' as well as you, and I do say it, with better grace than either of you!"
The men exchanged sullen glances.
"That password is not fit for spies," said Mount, grimly.
"Spy? You take me for a spy?" I cried, in astonishment. "Well, if you are the famous Jack Mount, you've duller wits than people believe."
"I've wit enough left to keep an eye on you," he roared, starting towards me; but the Weasel laid his little, rough claw on the giant's arm, and at the same moment I saw a dark figure step just within the outer fire-ring, holding up one arm as a sign of peace. The man was Walter Butler. I dropped back softly into the shadow of the thicket.
Slowly Jack Mount strolled around the rim of the fire-circle, rifle lying in the hollow of his left arm. He halted a few paces from Butler and signed for him to remain where he stood. There was no mistaking that signal, for it was a Mohawk sign, and both men understood that it meant "Move and I shoot!"
"Well, Captain Butler," he drawled, "what can I do for you?"
"You know me, sir?" replied Butler, without the faintest trace of surprise in his colourless voice.
"Ay, we all know you," replied Mount, quickly; "even in your Iroquois dress."