Pompey took advantage of this opportunity. He left that part of the neighborhood as fast as he could travel, and continued walking all night. The whole distance back to the settlement was made alone, without encountering a single human being. A kind Providence watched over the poor fellow’s footsteps. The first man he saw was the sentinel of the town, who discharged his gun at him, excusing himself on the plea that he was so dark he thought it was night itself, and fired his gun into it to clean out the barrel. CHAPTER III. THE RENEGADE. The renegade stooped and narrowly examined the marks which his dog had made in searching for the new trail, but as he had been to the spring once or twice, and had gone in many other directions beside the one toward Kingman’s retreat, it was impossible to follow up the right one. It was now getting dark rapidly. Already the shadows of the wood were growing darker each moment, and blending together. The renegade moved cautiously about, peering at each spot which he judged possible to contain a human being. “Don’t ’pear to find any, though I shouldn’t wonder if thar’s two, there ’bout. Like to know where Nero is.” He stopped and called again his brute, but, of course, he came not. “Beats the devil whar that dorg am!” he exclaimed, somewhat nettled. “I’ll have to wollop him when he comes home ag’in.” It was now so dark that his form was quite indistinct to Kingman. The latter saw him stand a moment and then soliloquize: “Now, s’pose there war some feller hid under them bushes, he’d have a fine chance to bring me down, wouldn’t he? Thunder! I didn’t think of that all the time I’ve been standin’ here.” This sudden discovery appeared considerably to affect him, for he turned on his heel and disappeared in the darkness. Pete Johnson, the renegade, was perhaps as incarnate a monster as Simon Girty; but, added to his crimes, he had a failing which the other great renegade had not. He was cowardly and fearful of his personal safety in battle. Girty, no one will deny, was a brave and daring fighter, and was often perfectly reckless of danger, while Johnson invariably showed the white feather when in peril. Darkness had now settled over the forest, and Kingman, having greatly recovered, stealthily emerged from his hiding-place. “Yes,” he muttered, looking toward the spot where he had last seen his enemy; “yes, there was a fellow under a bush, and nothing in the world would have given him a greater pleasure than to have sent a bullet through that black heart of yours. Never mind; your reward will come some day.” And he turned and plunged in the forest.