to the same place. What they're arter
'tain't eezy to tell. Some deviltry, for sartin. They purtend to make
thar livin' by ropin' wild horses? I guess he gits more by takin' them
as air tame;--as you, Clancy, hev reezun to know. I hain't a doubt he'd
do wuss than that, ef opportunity offered. Thar's been more'n one case
o' highway robbery out thar in West Texas, on emigrant people goin' that
way; an' I don't know a likelier than Borlasse to a had a hand in't. Ef
Kurnel Armstrong's party wan't so strong as 'tis, an' the kurnel hisself
a old campayner, I mout hev my fears for 'em. I reckin they're safe
enuf. Borlasse an' his fellurs won't dar tech them. Johnny sez thar
war but ten or twelve in all. Still, tho' they moutn't openly attack
the waggon train, thar's jest a chance o' their hangin' on its skirts,
an' stealin' somethin' from it. Ye heerd in Naketosh o' a young Creole
planter, by name Dupray, who's goed wi' Armstrong, an's tuk a big count
o' dollars along. Jest the bait to temp Jim Borlasse; an' as for Dick
Darke, thar's somethin' else to temp him. So--"

"Woodley!" exclaims Clancy, without waiting for the hunter to conclude;
"we must be off from here. For God's sake let us go!"

His comrades, divining the cause of Clancy's impatience, make no attempt
to restrain him. They have rested and sufficiently refreshed
themselves. There is no reason for their remaining any longer on the
ground.

Rising simultaneously, each unhitches his horse, and stands by the
stirrup, taking in the slack of his reins.

Before they can spring into their saddles, the deer-hound darts off from
their midst--as he does so giving out a growl.

The stroke of a hoof tells them of some one approaching, and the next
moment a horseman is seen through the trees.

Apparently undaunted, he comes on towards their camp ground; but when
near enough to have fair view of their faces, he suddenly reins up, and
shows signs of a desire to retreat.

If this be his intention, it is too late.

Before he can wrench round his horse a rifle is levelled, its barrel
bearing upon his body; while a voice sounds threateningly in his ears,
in clear tone, pronouncing the words,--

"Keep yur ground, Joe Harkness! Don't attempt retreetin'. If ye do,
I'll send a bullet through ye sure as my name's Sime Woodley."

The threat is sufficient. Harkness--for it is he--ceases tugging upon
his rein, and permits his horse to stand still.

Then, at a