Tired and disheartened in his search for our heroine, Colonel Argent O’Neill rejoined his soldiers in the Night-Hawk’s camp an hour or so before day.
He found Royal Funk but slightly wounded, and, with Whalley and Zigler, the two guards drugged by Spagano, closely watched by the troops. Funk looked daggers at the officers as he approached and a smile of satisfaction stole over his bronzed face when he noted that Huldah had escaped.
“So you spoke truly when you prophesied that we would meet again,” exclaimed the colonel, halting before the outlaw with drawn sword. “Fire and furies! I’m rejoiced that we have met, and fortune has given me the best hand, as you see. It’s a hand of trumps, too.”
“But, colonel, where’s the girl?”
The words were quietly but tauntingly spoken, and the smile grew broader on the Night-Hawk’s face while his lips moved.
O’Neill did not reply, but allowed his face to become livid with smothered anger.
“Yes, colonel, where is the girl?” he asked, again. “If you hold such a superb hand, why didn’t you capture my queen with one of your trumps?”
“Because your knave—that infernal Indian—baffled me,” said O’Neill, apparently a little calmer.
“Ah, then, he’ll keep the prize.”
“No, we found him dead in the woods; but the girl was gone!”