“And this,” said Johnny, tearing away a fake beard, “is Newton Mills.”
As he said this, Joyce Mills threw up her hands to utter a low cry.
“Let’s see!” “The Ferret” crowded in. He played the light on the pale, blood-stained face. He bent over it for an instant.
“Some one bring water,” he said in a business-like voice. “It’s only a scalp wound. He’ll be around directly.”
Johnny, watching Joyce Mills, admired her more than ever. For, after all, it was her father, the man she loved more than life, who lay there before her. She swayed back and forth once or twice; then turning to Johnny, she said a bit unsteadily, “I hope that we are going to have chicken dinner together in the shack to-morrow, father and Drew, Tom and I.”
“Why not in the cabin that has seen love and hate, life and death?” asked Johnny, finding it hard to control his emotions.
The hunting lodge was large. When Newton Mills came to, he was comfortably stowed away in one of its many beds. Joyce Mills was left there with him.
The others gathered about a great fireplace. The prisoners, Greasy Thumb and his pal, were not handcuffed. The windows were heavily shuttered from without, and a Federal officer sat on guard at the door.
“Nice night,” said Johnny, seating himself beside Drew Lane.
Across the fire the Chief scowled at him.