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And here Dick Darvall became communicative; entered into conversation, so to speak, with himself. After a few minutes, however, this did not prove a sufficient outlet to his exuberant spirits. "Come, Dick," he exclaimed, "give us a song. Your voice ain't, perhaps, much to speak of as to quality, but there's no end of quantity. Strike up, now; what shall it be?"
Next morning at daybreak they laid the outlaw in his last resting-place, and then the avengers prepared to set off in pursuit of his comrades. "You'll join us, I fancy," said Crux to Charlie Brooke. "No; I remain with my sick friend Leather. But perhaps some of my comrades may wish to go with you." It was soon arranged that Hunky Ben and Dick Darvall should join the party.
Hurrah!" yelled Darvall with delight. "An' Buck Tom!" roared Jackson in amazement. So sudden was the onset that the Indians were for a moment paralysed, and the two horsemen, firing right and left as they rode up, dashed straight into the very midst of the savages.
I'll answer to whichever name comes first when the roll is called in the next world." The conversation was interrupted at this point by the entrance of Hunky Ben bearing a deer on his lusty shoulders. He was followed by Dick Darvall. "There," said the former, throwing the carcass on the floor, "I told ye I wouldn't be long o' bringin' in somethin' for the pot."
While he was speaking the cow-boy sat down to supper with the air of a man who meant business, while the host and his sailor guest went to look after the defences of the place. "I'm glad you are here, Dick Darvall," said the former, "for it's a bad job to be obliged to fight without help agin a crowd o' yellin' Reds. My boys won't be back till sun-up, an' by that time the game may be played out."
But honest Dick Darvall could not conceal from himself that his main object was Mary Jackson! Somehow it has come to be supposed or assumed that a jack-tar cannot ride. Possibly this may be true of the class as a whole to which Jack belongs, but it is not necessarily true of all, and it certainly is not true of some. Dick Darvall was an expert horseman though a sailor.
While the recipients of the letters were busily perusing their missives, Dick Darvall gave the scout a brief outline of his expedition to the ranch, reserving the graphic narration of incidents to a more fitting occasion, when all the party could listen. "Dick, you're a trump," said the scout. "I'm a lucky fellow, anyhow," returned Dick.
"Come now, Shank," said Charlie, resuming the thread of discourse which had been interrupted, "it is quite plain to Dick and to myself that you are unfit to travel home in your present state of health, so I have made up my mind to leave you here in the care of honest Jackson and Darvall, and to go home myself to make inquiries and search for your father. Will this make your mind easy?
"I feel able enough to go about, and my mates'll think I'm shirkin' dooty." "There's not a man a-board as'll think that o' Dick Darvall," growled the boatswain, who had just entered and heard the last remark. "Right, bo's'n," said Brooke, "you have well expressed the thought that came into my own head." "Have ye seen Samson yet, sir?" asked the boatswain, with an unusually grave look.
Some by their savage glare at the cover that concealed the dead body showed plainly their dreadful desires. Brooke, Darvall, and the mate showed as clearly by their compressed lips and stern brows that they would resist any attempt to gratify these. Suddenly the mate's brow cleared, and his eyes opened wide as he muttered, under his breath, "A sail!"
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