“I'll pay you for this!” exclaimed Stevens, with a rage which was not less really felt than judiciously expressed. “Wait till we meet!”
“Ay, ay! I'll wait; but be in a hurry. Turn now, your nags are at your backs. Turn and mount!”
In this way they reached the tree where their steeds were fastened. Thus, with the muzzle of a pistol bearing close upon the body of each—the click of the cock they had heard—the finger close to the trigger they saw—they were made to mount—in momentary apprehension that the backwoodsman, whose determined character was sufficiently seen in his face, might yet change his resolve, and with wanton hand, riddle their bodies with his bullets. It was only when they were mounted, that they drew a breath of partial confidence.
“Now,” said Hinkley, “my lads, let there be few last words between you. The sooner you're off the better. As for you, Alfred Stevens, the sooner you're back in Charlemont the more daylight we'll have to go upon. I'll be waiting you, I reckon, when you come.”
“Ay, and you may wait,” said Stevens, as the speaker turned off and proceeded to the spot where his own horse was fastened.
“You won't return, of course?” said his companion.
“No! I must now return with you, thanks to your interference. By Heavens, Ben, I knew, at your coming, that you would do mischief; you have been a marplot ever; and after this, I am half-resolved to forswear your society for ever.”
“Nay, nay! do not say so, Warham. It was unfortunate, I grant you; but how the devil should either of us guess that such a Turk as that was in the bush?”
“Enough for the present,” said the other. “It is not now whether I wish to ride with you or not. There is no choice. There is no return to Charlemont.”
“And that's the name of the place, is it?”