More than once he glanced furtively at Huldah Armstrong, reclining on a robe at the foot of a sturdy oak, and often paused in his labors as if to catch certain sounds for which he seemed to be waiting. While gathering brushwood, for the fire, he made several lengthy journeys into the forest, and in the dim light, he practiced the old savage habit of listening with the ear applied to the ground.
Once Roy Funk came suddenly upon Spagano in this attitude of detecting sounds, and inquired into his action.
“Indian listening for British footsteps; but none come to his ears.”
Funk was satisfied with the reply, and commended the Wyandot’s watchfulness.
It was ten or perhaps quite eleven o’clock before the rude camp was finished, and after midnight but three persons therein appeared awake. The trio consisted of Spagano and two Night-Hawks. The recumbent forms of the remaining outlaws, including their leader, lay in the light of the dying fire, and resembled wooden statues more than breathing clay.
The white guards sat at the foot of a large tree; Spagano stood erect and wide-awake, a few feet to their right.
“Whalley, I’m as sleepy as a winter-treed b’ar,” said one of the men, in his uncouth tongue. “Say, haven’t I nodded a little within this past hour or such matter? I don’t see what’s come over me to-night. I know my chin has pounded my knees while we’ve been sittin’ here. But I can’t help it, Whalley; and if I do drop asleep, you’ll let me go, and keep mum to the captain, won’t you?”
“Yes, but keep awake if you can, Zigler,” returned Whalley, and a yawn stretched his mouth to its greatest dimensions. “Mind ye, if we go to sleep, that Indian kin do as he pleases, and we might wake up and find ourselves as dead as a herrin’.”
“Dead or no dead, Whalley, I’ve got to sleep,” drawled Zigler. “Wonder where that Injun got his whisky? Never had any to affect my eyes afore.”
Whalley here glanced at the Wyandot, who stood immobile against the tree, looking into the darkness of the wood.