"Well, what of it?"

"I s'pose you didn't do it on purpose, and I won't say anything about it this time. But you mustn't do it again."

"Yes I will, if I want to. I shot at you, and am sorry I didn't hit you.

Come, I thought you was going to whip me."

"Yes, Jenkins, give it to him. You said you were going to," cried the others.

"I don't s'pose he done it on purpose," he replied, turning toward the others.

"Yes I did, I told you so, and would as lief do it again as not."

"Jerusalem! here I'm standing in my wet clothes and catching cold every minute. This'll never do!"

And in spite of the jeers and laughs of the others, Jenkins with an anxious look, hurried away to "change his clothes."

CHAPTER XI.

A PRIZE GAINED AND LOST.

JENKINS, as it afterward turned out, was in the wood reconnoitering the fort when the shot was fired which had well-nigh been so fatal to him.

His object in doing this was to find out, before venturing to show himself, whether the Shawnees or whites held possession of the settlement. He had made the discovery of the attack when but a few miles off, and hearing the guns and becoming alarmed for his own safety, he ascended a tree and remained there until every Indian had departed from the neighborhood.

Some time after the closing scene of the last chapter, the sentinel confessed to Jenkins that he mistook him for an Indian when he fired, and he begged forgiveness for his great mistake. It is needless to say that the pardon was freely granted, and good humor held reign among them all.

The day after the attack and repulse, d.i.c.k Dingle, for the first time in his life, was taken sick. He was not dangerously so, but so severely that he was compelled to remain within doors. This happened unfortunately for Peterson, for the two had determined to pursue the retreating Indians for the purpose of capturing the renegade. A short consultation was held, when Peterson announced that he should make the attempt himself, accompanied only by Mansfield, who was all eagerness to join him.

Accordingly at noon, the two pa.s.sed out of the gate and commenced the expedition by plunging into the forest. The trail of the retreating Shawnees was so recent that it had not been obliterated by the rain, and it was easily followed. It led up the river a couple of miles, when it crossed to the Kentucky sh.o.r.e and took a northwest direction directly toward Mad river.

Our friends had not proceeded far when Peterson a.s.sured Mansfield that they were gaining rapidly upon the savages. The latter, enc.u.mbered by their dead and wounded, were making their way very slowly through the wood, and evidently had no thoughts of pursuit. An hour or two later Peterson remarked,

"We're goin' too fast, Mansfield; we'll run our heads into some trap afore we know it. Let's set down a while."

The two seated themselves upon a fallen tree and engaged in conversation.

"If we don't stop we'll be up with them afore night," said Peterson.

"And why shouldn't we?"

"Because--sh! there's some one back of us now."

Before they either had time to conceal themselves, the bushes parted, and the mysterious Frontier Angel stood before them.

"What are you doing here?" she asked quietly.

"Looking for that renegade," replied Mansfield.

"Do you know how far the Shawnees are away?"

"Can't be very fur, I think," replied Peterson.

"They are encamped a half-mile from here, and have sent scouts back upon their trail to see who pursues. If you remain here twenty minutes longer you will be seen and shot."

"Whew! that's more than we bargained for," remarked Peterson; "if it's all the same, we'll decline at present and slide."

"Do you know anything of McGable--"

Our hero stopped, for she had disappeared as quickly and quietly as she came.

"It won't do to wait hyer--reds is about," admonished Peterson.

No time was lost by our friends in seeking safety. The trail of the retreating body was so broad and palpable that there was little fear of their pursuit being noticed. The scouts sent back would take the direction of the back trail, and keep alongside of it to ascertain whether any force was following them. If so, an effort would be made to draw them in ambush. They had no suspicion, and cared nothing for such pursuit as was really made.

Peterson and Mansfield proceeded in a direction at right angles with the main travel, for several hundred yards, where they secreted themselves.

Here they remained for over an hour. By this time it was well toward night, and they ventured forth to resume the Shawnee trail again. After reaching it, they followed it a considerable distance, when finding that the Indian camp could be but a short distance away, they halted and again made off in a side direction.

It was while doing this, and when several hundred feet from it, that Peterson, who was slightly in advance, suddenly halted and raised his hand over his head as a signal for Mansfield to remain quiet. Both stood motionless a moment, when Peterson took several stealthy steps forward and motioned for Mansfield to come to his side. The latter did so, his looks showing more than words, the curiosity he felt. The ranger, by way of reply, pointed ahead, and downward. Mansfield followed the direction of his finger, and he felt every nerve thrill within him, as he saw a few feet in advance, the extended and sleeping form of the renegade, McGable.

"We've got him at last!" whispered Peterson exultingly.

The man, from all appearances, had lain down to rest a short distance from the camp to escape the hubbub and confusion occasioned by the presence of so many wounded and dying. That he was entirely unsuspicious of personal danger was evident from this fact.

Mansfield was too excited and fearful of awakening him to even whisper or suggest anything to Peterson. The latter, coolly and deliberately, stepped forward and removed the rifle from the nerveless embrace of McGable; then, stooping gently, pulled his knives from his girdle. This done, Peterson c.o.c.ked his own gun, and holding it pointed toward the breast of the renegade, said:

"Now wake him, Mansfield--give him a kick on the shins, and don't be afraid of hurting him."

Our hero gave him a gentle touch with his foot, which, failing to have effect, he increased to a kick. Seeing him make a movement as though awakening, he stepped back as directed. The renegade, mumbling to himself, finally opened his eyes and stared bewilderingly about him, seemingly totally unable to comprehend his whereabouts.

"Mr. Thomas McGable, Esq., I believe," said Peterson, with much gravity, without removing the aim of his rifle.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'Mr. Thomas McGable, Esq., I believe,' said Peterson with much gravity, without removing the aim of his rifle."]

"Who the devil are you?" demanded the renegade.

"Your master, sir."

"We'll see about that. Where--"

He paused as he reached for his rifle and found it gone; and his astonishment turned to furious indignation when he discovered that his knives had also been removed.

"What in the name of the furies are you doing with my arms?"

"Jest sot 'em one side for fear you might hurt yourself."

"See here, I understand your game, but it won't do. You think I'm your prisoner, eh? Did you know there is a hundred Shawnees within calling distance, who'd cut you to pieces ef they knowed you war here. Now, if you don't hand me my gun and knives back, they'll do it. I call 'em and then you may whistle for your hair."