r of rapidly
retreating horses. The riders passed his hiding-place and on they flew,
pushing their horses to full speed over the rough trail. Then, "Oh,
God!" In the next moment there rang out upon the midnight stillness the
terrible "crack!" of a death-dealing rifle, and in response a boy went
down to the earth heavily. Some mother's idol received a wound that
would take him hurriedly into eternity. His horse sped on, riderless.
Another "crack!" from those rifles and the other horse was killed in his
tracks, falling near the dying lad, while his rider, untouched, unhurt,
darted off into the thick sheltering brush and was seen no more.

Those who had fired the shots that caused death and sorrow, weeping and
wailing, listened not to the wailing of the dying boy, heard not his
pitiful moaning, nor his distressed cry for assistance, but thinking of
themselves dashed off through the brush, to safety, in an opposite
direction. They had _got a Rider_, and were evidently well satisfied
with their night's work. _Fiends_, may the tortures of hell be theirs!

Jack Wade, born with a love for his fellow-man, did hear and heed that
dying wail, and slowly led his own good steed out from his hiding-place
and on to the groaning one. He bent over him and looked into his
contorted face with a heavy, sorrowful heart. He was not dead, but
dying.

"Friend or foe," whispered the youth, as Wade appeared over him.

"Friend," replied Wade.

"Then you didn't shoot me?"

"No. Thank God, I didn't shoot you, lad." Tears were gathering in Wade's
eyes.

"I'm glad you didn't, stranger," said the lad. "I'm Fred Conover, and
I'm dying now. I can feel the cold, clammy sweat of death gathering over
me, my eyes are blinded until all is dark. I know that the death call
has been sounded to me, and I am going, going, but I am dying for a good
cause." He gasped his words now. "Stranger," he whispered, softly, "you
may not be a Rider--you ought to be. You may not be in open revolt
against us--you should not be. Listen, stranger, listen well to my last
words on earth, that you may carry them to the heart of every man in
this community, to the heart of every well-thinking man in the world,
that all the world may know we are right. My father was once a
well-to-do, honest, faithful farmer, but the trusts and combined wealth
put his nose to the grind-stone. I must speak quick. But for them we
could have lived nicely and comfortable. They took everything and