For many minutes after the brief conversation between the colonel and his privates, a dead silence reigned over forest and stream, but all at once this was broken by the voice of a soldier.
“The boats are coming!”
Colonel O’Neill started and looked up the river. Two black spots were visible on the shining water. Undoubtedly the canoes belonged to the Night-Hawk’s party.
“Ready, men?” whispered O’Neill, turning to his troops. “The devils are sailing right into our clutches. We want no noise now. Murphy, you are to do the hailing—recollect.”
The soldier nodded, and all eyes were fastened on the approaching boats.
The muskets were at full cock, ready, if needed, to pour a deadly fire into the barges.
Colonel O’Neill held his breath and glanced anxiously from the boats to Murphy, who, with the hailing words on his lips, awaited his commands.
“They’re in the shadow now,” said O’Neill, in reply to a look from his soldier. “When they emerge and execute four more strokes, you may speak.”
A group of trees threw a belt of shadow across the stream a short distance above the ambush, and into this darkness the two boats had glided.
All at once they drifted into the moonlight again, and the studied words were on Murphy’s tongue, when he suddenly started back, and threw a look of amazement into the colonel’s face.