van, the blacksmith, came running excitedly up from a side
street. He stopped in front of the hotel, breathlessly. Holding his
sides, he followed with his eyes the trail of dust leading out into
the night.

"Have they gone?" he panted. "I can't find another horse in town."

"Where is it to?" sputtered the German.

"Have they gone, I say?"

Hans gasped.

"Yes, to be sure."

"They'll never make it." The blacksmith mopped his brow with
conviction. "He has an hour's start."

Hans grasped the big man by the coat.

"Who is too late?" he emphasized. "Where are they going?"

Jim Donovan turned about, great pity for such density in his eyes.

"Is it possible you don't understand? It's to Ichabod Maurice's
they're going, to tell him of Arnold." The speaker mopped his face
anew. "It's useless though. They're too late," he completed.

"But Arnold is not there," protested the German. "He went for a
rabbit, out on the breaking. He so told me."

"He lied to you. He's mad. I tell you they're too late," repeated the
smith, obstinately.

Hans clung tenaciously to the collar.

"Some one knew and told them?" He pointed in the direction the dust
indicated.

"Yes, Bud Evans; but they wouldn't believe him at first,
and"--bitterly--"and waited." Donovan shook himself free, and started
down the walk. "I'm going to bed," he announced conclusively.

Meanwhile the cloud of dust was moving out over the prairie like the
wind. The pace was terrific, and the tough little ponies were soon
puffing steadily. Small game, roused from its sleep by the roadside,
sprang winging into the night. Once a coyote, surprised, ran a
distance confusedly ahead in the roadway; then, an indistinct black
ball, it vanished amongst the tall grass.

Well out on the prairie, Bud Evans, the leader, raised in his stirrups
and looked ahead. There was no light beyond where the little cottage
should be. The rowels of his spur dug anew at the flank of his pony as
he turned a voice like a fog-horn back over his shoulder.

"The place is dark, boys," he called. "Hurry."

Answering, a muttering sound, not unlike an approaching storm, passed
along the line, and in accompaniment the quirts cut the air anew.

Silent as the grave was the little farmstead when, forty odd minutes
from the time of starting, they steamed up at the high fence bounding
the yard. One of Ichabod's farm horses whinnied a lone greeting from
the barn as they hastily dismounted and swarmed wi