Page:Castlemon--Joe Wayring at Home.djvu/406

 dumped from the pan. A few broken plates and dishes that stood on a log close at hand, bore silent testimony to the fact that the squatter's wife was just getting ready to lay the table, when news was brought to the camp that Mr. Swan and his party were coming. Under the lean-to were some worthless articles in the way of wearing apparel and bed-clothes, but every thing of value had disappeared. There was nothing like a hammerless shot gun or a Winchester rifle to be found.

"The nest is warm, but where are the birds?" exclaimed Mr. Swan's employer, who had jumped into the clearing with his coat off and his fists doubled up, all ready to carry out his threat of pounding Matt Coyle before he was sent to jail.

"Didn't I say that they were sharp?" replied the guide. "The birds have took wing."

"Then take to your heels and catch them," exclaimed his employer. "Can't you follow a trail? They can't have been gone more than five minutes. A hundred dollars to the man that will capture that villain for me."