"No! No!" cried Foxcroft, "we cannot risk it! Stay where you are!"
"We cannot risk being butchered here!" I replied. Silver Heels was standing straight up in the chaise, one hand holding to the leather curtain. Her face had grown very white.
"They've killed a poor young man behind that barn!" she whispered, as I leaned from my saddle and motioned her to crouch low. "They shot him twice, and struck him with their muskets!"
I glanced hastily towards the barn and saw a dark heap lying in the grass behind it. Three red-coated soldiers stood near, loading their muskets and laughing.
"Look at the Weasel!" muttered Mount, jerking my arm as my horse ranged up beside his.
The Weasel was hastily climbing out of his saddle, rifle in hand. His face, which a few moments before had been haggard and vacant, had grown flushed and eager, his eyes snapped with intelligence, his head was erect, and his movements quick as a forest-cat's.
"Cade!" quavered Mount. "Cade, old friend, what are you doing?"
"Come!" cried the Weasel, briskly; "can't you see the redskins?"
"Redcoats! Redcoats!" cried Mount, anxiously. "Where are you going, Cade? Come back! Come back! They can't hit us here! Redcoats, Cade, not redskins!"
"They be all one to me!" replied the Weasel, briskly, scuttling away to cover under a tuft of hazel.