In another hour they have reached the bank of
the stream they sought. Dogs, horses, and men, together drink of its
limpid waters, and proceed onward. They have yet several miles of
travel before reaching the spot designated by the strange hunter;
and seeking their way along the bank is a slow and tedious process.
The prize-that human outcast, who has no home where democracy
rules,--is the all-absorbing object of their pursuit; money is the
god of their hellish purpose.
It is near night-fall, when they, somewhat wearied of the day's
ride, halt on a little slope that extends into the river, and from
which a long view of its course above opens out. It seems a quiet,
inviting spot, and so sequestered that Bengal suggests it be made a
resting-place for the night.
"Not a whisper," says Romescos, who, having dismounted, is nervously
watching some object in the distance. It is a pretty spot, clothed
in softest verdure. How suddenly the quick eye of Romescos
discovered the white smoke curling above the green foliage! "See!
see!" he whispers again, motioning his hand behind, as Bengal
stretches his neck, and looks eagerly in the same direction. "Close
dogs-close!" he demands, and the dogs crouch back, and coil their
sleek bodies at the horses' feet. There, little more than a mile
ahead, the treacherous smoke curls lazily upward, spreading a white
haze in the blue atmosphere. Daddy Bob has a rude camp there. A few
branches serve for a covering, the bare moss is his bed; the fires
of his heart would warm it, were nothing more at hand! Near by is
the island on which he seeks refuge when the enemy approaches; and
from this lone spot-his home for more than two years-has he sent
forth many a fervent prayer, beseeching Almighty God to be his
shield and his deliverer.
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