"Oh, you rest easy 'bout all thet, Bill," chimed in Sandy Winn, his
black eyes dancing in anticipation of coming fun. "We 'll git up the
ornariest outfit whut ever hit the pike."
The long shadows of the late afternoon were already falling across the
gloomy Carter woods, while the red sun sank lower behind old Bull
Mountain. The Reverend Howard Wynkoop, who for more than an hour past
had been vainly dangling a fishing-line above the dancing waters of
Clear Creek, now reclined dreamily on the soft turf of the high bank,
his eyes fixed upon the distant sky-line. His thoughts were on the
flossy hair and animated face of the fair Miss Spencer, who he
momentarily expected would round the edge of the hill, and so deeply
did he become sank in blissful reflection as to be totally oblivious to
everything but her approach.
Just above his secret resting-place, where the great woods deepen, and
the gloomy shadows lie darkly all through the long afternoons, a small
party of hideously painted savages skulked silently in ambush.
Suddenly to their strained ears was borne the sound of horses' hoofs;
and then, all at once, a woman's voice rang out in a single shrill,
startled cry.
"Whut is up?" questioned the leading savage, hoarsely. "Is he a-doin'
this little job all by hisself?"
"Dunno," answered the fellow next him, flipping his quirt uneasily;
"but I reckon as how it's her as squealed, an' we 'd better be gitting
in ter hev our share o' the fun."
The "chief," with an oath of disgust, dashed forward, and his band
surged after. Just below them, and scarcely fifty feet away, a
half-score of roughly clad, heavily bearded men were clustered in the
centre of the trail, two of their number lifting the unconscious form
of a fainting woman upon a horse.
"Cervera's gang, by gosh!" panted the leading savage. "How did they
git yere?"
"You bet! She's up agin the real thing," ejaculated a voice beside
him. "Let's ride 'em off the earth! Whoop!"
With wild yells to awaken fresh courage, the whole band plunged
headlong down the sharp decline, striking the surprised "road-agents"
with a force and suddenness which sent half of them sprawling.
Revolvers flashed, oaths and shouts rang out fiercely, men clinched
each other, striking savage blows. Lumley grasped the leader of the
other party by the hair, and endeavored to beat him over the head with
his revolver butt. Even as he uplifted his hand to strike, the man's
beard fell off, and the two fierce combatants paused as though
thunderstruck.