And that was the way the fun began.
It was about eleven o’clock that evening, as soon as the last inspection was over and the camp quiet, that four figures crept out of one of the tents, dashed past the intentionally oblivious sentry and hid themselves in the shadow of old Fort Clinton. Those who have read these stories would have been quick enough to recognize them—the unpleasant features of Bull Harris, and likewise the sallow Vance, the brutal Gus Murray, and the amiable Baby Edwards. Those four were bound for the Banded Seven’s den, and, in vulgar parlance, “they weren’t going to do a thing to it.”
They left the fort and made for the woods, stealing along in the shadow of the buildings so as to be observed by no one. It was a difficult task because unfortunately there was a bright moon in the sky. That moon gave our friends no end of trouble when they set out to follow.
The Seven entered the fort just as the others left it. Like them they stowed away their uniforms, and put on the “cits” clothing.
As has been noted, it was no child’s play, that task of following the four through the woods. Full-fledged Apaches would have found it hard, and, as you know, in our crowd, there was only one Indian, and that one as clumsy as a herd of elephants. The woods were bright; also there were dry leaves and sticks to be stepped on and slippery logs for Indian to fall off of. It was therefore to be expected that Bull would very soon discover he was being tracked, which was just exactly what happened.
Bull Harris was no fool; he had plenty of sense, and he used it, too. In fact, he completely outwitted the unsuspecting plebes. And this was how he did it.
Sundry curious sounds from the rear first attracted his attention. Bull suspected, of course, at the very start that it was Mark; he said that to Gus Murray, and also that he’d like to “smash that confounded plebe” for once and for all.
Just then they came to a steep incline, which hid them from their pursuers’ view, and, quick as a flash, Bull dodged into the bushes and hid. He lay there with the others, silent as so many mice.
Pretty soon the plebes came along, creeping with stealthiness that was most laughable to the yearlings. You might hunt for ten years without finding a sight more ludicrous than Parson Stanard in a ragged, black clerical frock, lanky and solemn, stealing along on tiptoe and glancing about him with cunning and wariness such as the villain assumes in a deep black Bowery melodrama. Indian’s round body and saucer-like eyes, going through the same contortions, made a close second for humorous effect. If Bull hadn’t hated the plebes too much he would have sneered at them as Vance was doing.
As to the costumes they wore, Bull stared at them for some time before he realized the true state of affairs. Bull noticed their clothes, and he had read the description in the paper. But it was at least a minute before he could bring himself to comprehend what the similarity of the two signified. When he did he seized Gus Murray by the arm in a grip that cut.