a wooded hollow
which was backed on two sides by precipices and on the third by a deep
ravine.

"A good spot to set a host at defiance," remarked Stalker, glancing
round with a look that would have expressed satisfaction if the wounded
arm had allowed.

"Yes," added the trapper, "and--" A violent fit of coughing prevented
the completion of the sentence, which, however, when thought out in
Drake's mind ran--"a good spot for hemming you and your scoundrels in,
and starving you into submission!"

A short time sufficed for a bite of cold supper and a little whiff, soon
after which the robber camp, with the exception of the sentinels, was
buried in repose.

Tom Brixton was not allowed to have any intercourse whatever with his
friend Drake. Both were bound and made to sleep in different parts of
the camp. Nevertheless, during one brief moment, when they chanced to
be near each other, Drake whispered, "Be ready!" and Tom heard him.

Ere long no sound was heard in the camp save an occasional snore or
sigh, and Drake's constant and hacking, but highly suppressed, cough.
Poor fellow! He was obviously consumptive, and it was quite touching to
note the careful way in which he tried to restrain himself, giving vent
to as little sound as was consistent with his purpose.

Turning a corner of jutting rock in the valley which led to the spot,
Unaco's sharp and practised ear caught the sound. He stopped and stood
like a bronze statue by Michael Angelo in the attitude of suddenly
arrested motion. Upwards of two hundred bronze arrested statues
instantly tailed away from him.

Presently a smile, such as Michael Angelo probably never thought of
reproducing, rippled on the usually grave visage of the chief.

"M'ogany Drake!" he whispered, softly, in Paul Bevan's ear.

"I didn't know Drake had sitch a horrid cold," whispered Bevan, in
reply.

Tolly Trevor clenched his teeth and screwed himself up internally to
keep down the laughter that all but burst him, for he saw through the
device at once. As for Leaping Buck, he did more than credit to his
sire, because he kept as grave as Michael Angelo himself could have
desired while chiselling his features.

"Musha! but that is a quare sound," whispered Flinders to Westly.

"Hush!" returned Westly.

At a signal from their chief the whole band of Indians sank, as it
seemed, into the ground, melted off the face of the earth, and only the
white men and the chief remained.

"I mu