“God save our country, friend,” added Elerson, gravely.

“God save our country, friends,” repeated the man.

So far, so good.  The man, a thick, stocky, heavy-eyed fellow, moistened his broad lips with his tongue, peered furtively at me, and instantly dropped his eyes.  At the same instant memory stirred within me; a vague recollection of those heavy, black eyes, of that broad, bow-legged figure set me pondering.

“Me fri’nd,” purred Murphy, persuasively, “is th’ Frinch thrappers balin’ August peltry f’r to sell in Canady?”

“I’ve a few late pelts from the lakes,” muttered the man, without looking up.

“Domned late,” cried Murphy, gayly.  “Sure they do say, if ye dhraw a summer mink an’ turrn th’ pelt inside out like a glove, the winther fur will sprout inside—­wid fashtin’ an’ prayer.”

The man bent his eyes obstinately on the ground; instead of smiling he had paled.

“Have you the skin of a wampum bird in that bale?” asked Mount, pleasantly.

Elerson struck the pack with the flat of his hand; the mangy wolverine pelt crackled.

“Green hides!  Green hides!” laughed Mount, sarcastically.  “Come, my friend, we’re your customers.  Down with your bales and I’ll buy.”

Murphy had laid a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder, halting him short in his tracks; Elerson, rifle cradled in the hollow of his left arm, poked his forefinger into the bales, then sniffed at the aperture.

“There are green hides there!” he exclaimed, stepping back.  “Jack, slip that pack off!”

The man started forward, crying out that he had no time to waste, but Murphy jerked him back by the collar and Elerson seized his right arm.

“Wait!” I said, sharply.  “You cannot stop a man like this on the highway!”

“You don’t know us, sir,” replied Mount, impudently.

“Come, Colonel Ormond,” added Elerson, almost savagely.  “You’re our captain no longer.  Give way, sir.  Answer for your own men, and we’ll answer to Danny Morgan!”

Mount, struggling to unfasten the pack, looked over his huge shoulders at me.

“Not that we’re not fond of you, sir; but we know this old fox now—­”

“You lie!” shrieked the man, hurling his full weight at Murphy and tearing his right arm free from Elerson’s grip.

There came a flash, an explosion; through a cloud of smoke I saw the fellow’s right arm stretched straight up in the air, his hand clutching a smoking pistol, and Elerson holding the arm rigid in a grip of steel.

[Illustration:  “Instantly mount tripped the man".]

Instantly Mount tripped the man flat on his face in the dust, and Murphy jerked his arms behind his back, tying them fast at the wrists with a cord which Elerson cut from the pack and flung to him.

“Rip up thim bales, Jack!” said Murphy.  “Yell find them full o’ powther an’ ball an’ cutlery, sorr, or I’m a liar!” he added to me.  “This limb o’ Lucifer is wan o’ Francy McCraw’s renegados!—­Danny Redstock, sorr, th’ tirror av the Sacandaga!”