“We got the girl of course, and,” looking at O’Neill, “she’s my girl, colonel—Huldah Armstrong.”
“This will all do to tell, Roy Funk,” said the soldier; “but it won’t slip down. You don’t understand greasing lies. That is an art which you should have mastered.”
“You’ll believe me if I produce the deserter and girl?” flashed Funk.
“I will, and not until then will I credit a single word you have uttered.”
The outlaw turned quickly upon one of his men.
“Jackson, go and bring Hunter and the girl here,” he said, in maddened tones, and the look which he then darted at his other Night-Hawks drew them nearer his imperiled form.
“You shall see that I haven’t lied!” he said, turning to O’Neill again. “Splitlog has enjoyed a long acquaintance with me, and he can not put his finger on a single lie of mine.”
“But what say you in extenuation of your crime of disobeying orders?”
“Circumstances, sir, interposed to check my career, and when I had disposed of my captives, you were withdrawing your troops. But, Colonel O’Neill, I want you to understand that I am a free man here. Roy Funk and his fellows do as they please; but for this time I have condescended to be a subordinate. You, sir, are the minority here. Splitlog by superiority of numbers commands.”
O’Neill bit his lip and referred the outlaw to the Wyandot for punishment. He felt that Splitlog would rid himself of Funk’s presence, and now he devoutly wished the forest freebooter out of his way.