“Ye can’t talk to me like that!” exclaimed Hood. “I don’t take sass from no Injun nor from no danged O’Dell! Where’s this here Sherwood the law be after? Take us to ’im!”
“Keep dat rifle steady, Lunt,” cautioned Noel. “An’ you too, old feller. I got jerks on de finger when I was little papoose an’ mighty sick one time—an’ maybe still got ’em, I dunno. Got hair trigger on dis old gun, anyhow.”
“Don’t ye be a fool, Noel Sabattis,” said Lunt. “I’m a constable. I want this man Richard Sherwood, who’s suspicioned of the murder of the late Louis Balenger, an’ I know ye’ve got him somewheres ’round here. I’m talkin’ to ye official now, Noel, as the arm o’ the law ye might say. Drop yer gun an’ lead us to him.”
“Sherwood? Ain’t I told you he don’t shoot dat feller Balenger? He don’t shoot nobody. You ask Brown. You ask Ben O’Dell. Ask anybody. Pretty near anybody tell you whole lot you don’t know, Lunt!”
“’Zat so? I’ll ask Mr. Brown when I see ’im, don’t ye fret! I reckon we kin stand here’s long as ye kin hold up that old gun; and then—but we’ll show ye all about that later.”
“Maybe,” said Noel. “Hold ’im good long time, anyhow.”
He glanced down and behind him, under his left elbow, for an instant. Red Lily still lay flat among the ferns but Red Chief was not there. He wondered at that but he did not worry. His admiration for the red dogs was great, though his acquaintance with them had been short.
In the meantime, Jim McAllister was returning on a bee line through the woods, with iodine and quinine and bandages and boric powder in his pockets and a basket containing a bottle of milk and a dozen fresh eggs in his right hand. When he was within half a mile of poor Sherwood’s retreat he was met by Red Chief. The old dog leaped about him, squirmed and wriggled, ran forward and back and forward again. Jim knew that he was needed for something and quickened his pace. Red Chief led him straight. Soon the dog slackened his pace and glanced back with a new expression in his eyes. It was as if he had laid a finger on his lips for caution. Jim understood and obeyed, anxious and puzzled. He stooped, looked keenly to his front and set his feet down with care.
Jim heard voices. A few seconds later, he glimpsed the shoulders of two men among the brown boles of the forest, topping the underbrush. He saw rifles slanted on their shoulders. He set the basket of eggs and milk securely in a ferny nook and continued to advance with increased caution. He recognized the voice of Mel Lunt. Then he heard Noel’s voice. He heard the old Maliseet say, “I kin hold her annoder hour yet. Den maybe git so tired me finger jerk, hey? Maybe. Dunno.”
He saw Noel facing the others, standing with his back square to the dense growth of Sherwood’s retreat. He saw the duck gun. In a flash he understood it all; and in another flash of time indignation flared up in him like white fire. Lunt, that brainless sneak! And old Tim Hood, whose only pleasure was derived from the troubles of others! So they had spied on him, had they? Tracked him on his errand of mercy!