When the enemy had been so scattered as to leave the path free, the small band of rangers plunged deeper into the woods and kept on their course until they reached a small wooded swamp through which many small creeks ran, leaving a little island in the center, containing, perhaps, two acres of land. The tall trees stood thick about it, and no better place of defense could possibly have been selected. No sooner had they reached the island than they set to work fortifying it by piling up fallen logs into a temporary barricade, making it strongest upon the only point which could be assailed by land, as the creeks swept around it on three sides, leaving a space of smooth ground about twenty feet wide. Across this they built a strong barricade at least ten feet high, through the openings of which, they could fire upon the foe, without being themselves seen. The other parts of the island were almost impervious to assault, for not only did the deep creek guard it, but the logs had fallen all about it in inextricable confusion, making a _chevaux de frise_ through which a corps of axmen would have found it extremely difficult to force their way. The middle of the island was cleared, leaving the path open for them to pass from one part to another, and they now waited almost eagerly for the coming of the enemy, who, as yet, did not appear. Cooney Joe took his rifle and stole out toward the clearing, and for half an hour the “scout” remained quiet, waiting in considerable anxiety for the coming of the hunter, whose danger they well knew. But he came back at a long-loping trot, his rifle at a trail, and his eyes flashing with the ardor of battle. “Git ready, boys,” he cried. “We’ve got business afore us, bet yer life.” “What now, Joe?” demanded the captain. “Who are coming?” “All that’s left of Napope’s band and thirty of Dick Garrett’s men,” replied Joe. “And—” “Thar’s an Injin,” cried one of the men. “I’ll pop him over.” “Hold on,” replied Joe. “Seems to me that chap is making signals that look _white_. Thar; look at that!” An Indian had appeared in plain sight and was waving a white cloth in the air. “Hello, _you_!” yelled Joe. “Come in, ef you want to.” The man obeyed and came clambering over the barricade, and at a glance they could see that he was a white man disguised. It was Tom Bantry, who had escaped from associates with whom he could no longer consort. “Look here, men,” he said. “I’m Tom Bantry. You don’t know _me_ and mebbe you don’t want to. I’ve been one of Dick Garrett and Will Jackwood’s men—I have. Now why don’t you kill me?” “Don’t see my way to that clear,” said Joe. “Now, Tom Bantry, what d’ye want here?” “I’ve, quit ’em,” replied Tom, energetically. “I couldn’t stand it, boys, ’pon my word, I couldn’t. I feel mean as dirt ’cause I’ve been with ’em so long; but I tell you I didn’t think they was so mean till last night when they killed poor Mr. Wescott.”