“The more sport for us—­but this is all idle.  It will all end in talk, and whether it do or not, we, at least, have nothing to do with it.  But, there is drink—­fill—­and let us look to business before either of us sleep.”

The lieutenant did as suggested by Rivers, who, rising from his seat, continued for some time to pace the apartment, evidently in deep meditation.  He suddenly paused, at length, and resuming his seat, inquired of Dillon as to the manner in which he had been employed through the last few days.

A narration, not necessary to repeat, followed from the officer in which the numerous petty details of frontier irregularity made up the chief material.  Plots and counterplots were rife in his story, and more than once the outlaw interrupted his officer in the hope of abridging the petty particulars of some of their attenuated proportions—­an aim not always successful, since, among the numerous virtues of Lieutenant Dillon, that of precision and niceness in his statements must not be omitted.  To this narration, however, though called for by himself, the superior yielded but little attention, until he proceed to describe the adventure of the night, resulting so unsuccessfully, with the emigrating farmer.  When he described the persons of the two strangers, so unexpectedly lending their aid in defence of the traveller, a new interest was awakened in the features and mariner of his auditor, who here suddenly and with energy interrupted him, to make inquiries with regard to their dress and appearance, which not a little surprised Dillon, who had frequently experienced the aversion of his superior to all seemingly unnecessary minutiae.  Having been satisfied on these points, the outlaw rose, and pacing the apartment with slow steps, seemed to meditate some design which the narrative had suggested.  Suddenly pausing, at length, as if all the necessary lights had shone in upon his deliberations at once, he turned to Dillon, who stood in silent waiting, and thus proceeded:—­

“I have it,” said he, half-musingly, “I have it, Dillon—­it must be so.  How far, say you, is it from the place where the man—­what’s his name—­encamped last night?”

“Nine or ten miles, perhaps, or more.”

“And you know his route for to-day?”

“There is now but one which he can take, pursuing the route which he does.”

“And upon that he will not go more than fifteen or twenty miles in the day.  But not so with him—­not so with him.  He will scarcely be content to move at that pace, and there will be no hope in that way to overtake him.”

Rivers spoke in soliloquy, and Dillon, though accustomed to many of the mental irregularities of his superior, exhibited something like surprise as he looked upon the lowering brows and unwonted indecision of the outlaw.

“Of whom does the captain speak?” was his inquiry.

“Of whom?—­of him—­of him!” was the rather abrupt response of the superior, who seemed to regard the ignorance of his lieutenant as to the object in view, with almost as much wonder as that worthy entertained at the moment for the hallucinations of his captain.