Carpenter had five men at his disposal, and he was sanguine that an
unremitting pursuit must end in the capture of the outlaw. Consequently,
upon the removal of the bulk of the expedition, he set himself to make
such disposition of his men as would lead to the most substantial
results. Where did Donald get his food? Where did he get changes of
clothing? He _must_ pay visits to the houses in the neighborhood. They
had been searched in vain. Very well. Let them be searched again. Let
them be persistently watched. The outlaw would be tracked at last.
It was about ten o'clock at night. Dark, heavy clouds hung overhead like
a mournful pall. A brooding darkness and silence enveloped the woods.
A figure parted the young branches, came out into the open, ran
stealthily along the road, reached a small cottage, and disappeared
within it.
Donald had tempted fate at a moment when fate, in the form of two eager
officers of the law, was closing him in.
McMahon and the Indian scout were out that night. They had made a round
of the cottages. Fatigued and a little dispirited, they were about to go
back to their quarters, when a feeble glimmer of light was seen through
the darkness, proceeding from the cottage which Donald had entered.
"Is it worth while to search it?" McMahon asked his companion
doubtfully.
"Well," replied the scout, "we may as well take it in to wind up for the
night. I don't suppose we'll have any luck."
"Not likely," McMahon said. Donald was eating a little plain supper,
when the poor honest peasant woman whose hospitality he was sharing,
thought she heard footsteps outside the door. She listened. "Donald," she
said, in a quick, sharp voice, "I hear footsteps. They are approaching
the door. It may be the police. What will you do?"
"I don't think they're about so late," Donald replied carelessly,
feeling nevertheless for his pistols in his pockets.
"Donald, they're coming. It's the police. I'm sure of it. My God, if
you should be taken. Here, quick! come into this bedroom, and lie quiet
under the bed."
Donald sprang from his seat and did as he was directed. He was not a
moment too soon.
The police knocked smartly at the door.
The woman opened it.
"Have you got Morrison here?" McMahon asked.
"Look and see," the woman replied.
The two men searched the four rooms of the small house, and then they
sat down upon the bed beneath which, close to the wall, Donald was
concealed!
"There's no use in stopping here," Leroyer said.
"No," replied McMahon, "we may as well go." As he spoke he carelessly
ran the butt end of his rifle under the bed!
Donald grew to the wall, and held his breath!
The rifle conveyed no sense of contact. It was thrust in without
conscious motive.
The police took their departure.
"What a narrow escape!" Donald said, when he had emerged from his
hiding-place. His face showed pale beneath the bronze. The perspiration
stood in beads upon his brow.
The friendly creature who sheltered him trembled like an aspen.
She had expected discovery, arrest, perhaps even bloodshed. She felt all
a woman's exaggerated horror of police, and law, and violence.
"Forgive me," Donald said, "for coming near the house. I'll not trouble
you again."