As we swung along through the heavily timbered land fringing our road, Bungay pressed his mule into a trot and finally succeeded in ranging up at my side. Even in my disturbed mental condition I was amused at his unique style of riding, although I would not wound him by laughing.

"I say, Cap," he said, jerking the words out to the mule's hard trot, and grasping his saddle pommel desperately, "I sorter reckon as how ther'll be some fun back thar afore long, 'less all signs fail."

"Why?" I stared at him, now thoroughly aroused to the thought that he had important news to communicate.

"Wal," he explained slowly, "whin ye wint off, I sorter tuk a notion ter look 'bout a bit. Used ter be an ol' stompin' ground o' mine. So Dutchy an' me clumb thet big hill back o' whar we halted, an' by gum, down thar in ther gully on t' other side thar's a durned big camp o' fellers."

I reined up short, and with uplifted hand signalled the men behind to halt.

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" I questioned sternly. "How many were there? and what did they look like?"