leavin'
Naketosh, they'd be tired on gettin' this fur, an' good as sartin to lay
up a bit. Look! thar's the ashes o' thar fire, whar I 'spose they
cooked somethin'. Thar hain't been a critter crossed the river since
the big rain, else we'd a seed tracks along the way. For they started
jest the day afore the rain; and that ere fire hez been put out by it.
Ye kin tell by them chunks showin' only half consoomed. Yis, by the
Eturnal! Roun' the bleeze o' them sticks has sot seven, eight, nine, or
may be a dozen, o' the darndest cut-throats as ever crossed the Sabine;
an' that's sayin' a goodish deal. Two o' them I kin swar to bein' so;
an' the rest may be counted the same from their kumpny--that kumpny
bein' Jim Borlasse an' Dick Darke."

After thus delivering himself, the hunter remains apparently reflecting,
not on what he has said, but what they ought to do. Clancy has been all
the while silent, brooding with clouded brow--only now and then showing
a faint smile as the hound comes up, and licks his outstretched hand.
Heywood has nothing to say; while Jupiter is not expected to take any
part in the conversation.

For a time they all seem under a spell of lethargy--the lassitude of
fatigue. They have ridden a long way, and need rest. They might go to
sleep alongside the log, but none of them thinks of doing so, least of
all Clancy. There is that in his breast forbidding sleep, and he is but
too glad when Woodley's next words arouse him from the torpid repose to
which he has been yielding. These are:--

"Now we've struck thar trail, what, boys, d'ye think we'd best do?"

Neither of the two replying, the hunter continues:--

"To the best of my opeenyun, our plan will be to put straight on to whar
Planter Armstrong intends settin' up his sticks. I know the place 'most
as well as the public squar o' Natchez. This chile intends jeinin' the
ole kurnel, anyhow. As for you, Charley Clancy, we know whar ye want to
go, an' the game ye intend trackin' up. Wal; ef you'll put trust in
what Sime Woodley say, he sez this: ye'll find that game in the
neighbourhood o' Helen Armstrong;--nigh to her as it dar' ventur'."

The final words have an inflammatory effect upon Clancy. He springs up
from the log, and strides over the ground, with a wild look and
strangely excited air. He seems impatient to be back in his saddle.

"In coorse," resumes Woodley, "we'll foller the trail o' Borlasse an'
his lot. It air sure to lead