"The
Wyandots are fine trailers, but they are no better than he, maybe not as
good, and no detachment of heavy-footed soldiers can surprise him in the
woods."

"But if overtaken they will certainly be defeated. All of them will be
slain or captured," said Holderness. "There can be no doubt of it."

"It is to be seen," said Henry, "and we must wait patiently for the
result."

Henry was allowed to go in the court again that day. He knew that strong
influences were working for his good treatment, and with the
impossibility of escape in broad daylight under scores of watchful eyes
there was no reason why he should be confined in the big jail. He hoped
to see Timmendiquas there, but the chief still stayed outside with his
Wyandot warriors. Instead he met another who was not so welcome. As he
turned a corner of a large log building he came face to face with
Braxton Wyatt. Henry turned abruptly away, indicating that he would
avoid the young renegade as he would a snake. But Wyatt called to him:

"Henry, I've got a few words to say to you. You know that you and I were
boys together down there in Wareville, and if I've done you any harm it
seems that the score is about even between us. I've helped to make war
on the rebels in the East. I had gathered together a fine band there. I
was leader of it and a man of importance, but that band was destroyed
and you were the chief instrument of its destruction."

"Why do you say all this?" asked Henry shortly.

"To show you that I am in the right, and that I am now a Loyalist not
for profit, but in face of the fact that I suffer for it."

Henry looked at him in amazement. Why should Braxton Wyatt say these
things to him whom he hated most? Then he suddenly knew the reason. Deep
down in the heart of everyone, no matter how perverted he may become, is
some desire for the good opinion of others. The renegade was seeking to
justify himself in the eyes of the youth who had been for a while a
childhood comrade. He felt a sort of pity, but he knew that nothing good
could come of any further talk between Braxton Wyatt and himself.

"Of course you are entitled to your opinion, Braxton," he said, "but it
can never be mine. Your hands are red with the blood of your people, our
people, and there can never be any friendship between us."

He saw the angry light coming into Wyatt's eyes, and he turned away. He
felt that under the circumstances he could not quarrel with him, and he
knew that i