“You would persist in discussing our plan last night in my room, though I warned you we might be overheard.” “Well?” “We were overheard.” “What spy listened to our talk?” “The young man, Melville--the one traveling with a boy. He kept it to himself till the stage was well on its way, and then he blabbed the whole thing to all in the stage.” “Did he mention you?” “Yes, and you.” “Why didn't you tell him he lied, and shoot him on the spot?” “Because I shouldn't have survived him five minutes,” answered the colonel, coolly, “or, if I had, his companions would have lynched me.” Brown didn't look as if he would have been inconsolable had this occurred. In fact, he was ambitious to succeed to the place held by the colonel, as chief of a desperate gang of outlaws. “I might have been dangling from a branch of a tree at this moment, had I followed your plan, my good friend Brown, and that would have been particularly uncomfortable.” “They might have shot me,” said Brown, sullenly. “I prevented that, and gave you timely warning. Of course it's a disappointment, but we shall have better luck next time.” “They've got away.” “Yes, but I propose to keep track of Melville and the boy, and have my revenge upon them in time. I don't care so much about the money, but they have foiled me, and they must suffer for it. Meanwhile, I want your help in another plan.” The two conferred together, and mutual confidence was re-established. CHAPTER XXIX. A NEW HOME IN THE WOODS. George Melville had no definite destination. He was traveling, not for pleasure, but for health, and his purpose was to select a residence in some high location, where the dry air would be favorable for his pulmonary difficulties. A week later he had found a temporary home. One afternoon Herbert and he, each on horseback, for at that time public lines of travel were fewer than at present, came suddenly upon a neat, one-story cottage in the edge of the forest. It stood alone, but it was evidently the home of one who aimed to add something of the graces of civilization to the rudeness of frontier life. They reined up simultaneously, and Melville, turning to Herbert, said: “There, Herbert, is my ideal of a residence. I should not be satisfied with a rude cabin. There I should find something of the comfort which we enjoy in New England.” “The situation is fine, too,” said Herbert, looking about him admiringly. The cottage stood on a knoll. On either side were tall and stately trees. A purling brook at the left rolled its silvery current down a gentle declivity, and in front, for half a mile, was open country. “I have a great mind to call and inquire who lives here.” said Melville. “Perhaps we can arrange to stay here all night.” “That is a good plan, Mr. Melville.” George Melville dismounted from his horse, and, approaching, tapped with the handle of his whip on the door. “Who's there?” inquired a smothered voice, as of one rousing himself from sleep.