"Three more quiet," said Jonathan Zane. "What now?"
"We've headed Legget, an' we'll keep nosin' him off his course.
Already he's lookin' fer a safe campin' place for the night."
"There is none in these woods, fer him."
"We didn't plan this gettin' between him an' his camp; but couldn't be better fixed. A mile farther along the ridge, is a campin' place, with a spring in a little dell close under a big stone, an' well wooded. Legget's headin' straight fer it. With a couple of Injuns guardin' thet spot, he'll think he's safe. But I know the place, an' can crawl to thet rock the darkest night thet ever was an' never crack a stick."
* * * * *
In the gray of the deepening twilight Jonathan Zane sat alone. An owl hooted dismally in the dark woods beyond the thicket where the borderman crouched waiting for Wetzel. His listening ear detected a soft, rustling sound like the play of a mole under the leaves. A branch trembled and swung back; a soft footstep followed and Wetzel came into the retreat.
"Well?" asked Jonathan impatiently, as Wetzel deliberately sat down and laid his rifle across his knees.
"Easy, Jack, easy. We've an hour to wait."
"The time I've already waited has been long for me."
"They're thar," said Wetzel grimly.