I'll attend to everything."

"Cool as a cucumber," laughed a man. "Next thing you know he'll give
orders 'bout whar he wants to be buried, an' what to have cut on his
grave-rock."

The whole gang laughed at this witticism, and started on again. When
they had gone about a hundred yards Westerfelt glanced back. He saw
Washburn cross the road and enter the blacksmith's shop, and the next
instant the shop was hidden by a sudden turn in the road. They passed
the meeting-house and began to ascend the mountain. Here and there
along the dark range shone the red fires of chestnut harvesters. The
blue smoke hung among the pines, and the air was filled with the odor
of burning leaves. They passed a camp--a white-covered wagon, filled
with bags of chestnuts, two mules tethered to saplings, and three or
four forms in dusky blankets lying round a log fire. As the weird
procession passed, the mules drew back on their halters and threw their
ears forward, but the bodies at the fire did not stir.

In about twenty minutes the band reached a plateau covered with a
matting of heather. They went across it to the edge of a high
precipice. It was as perpendicular as a wall. Below lay the valley,
its forests of pines and cedars looking like a black lake in the clear
moonlight.

"Git down, men, an' let's 'tend to business an' go back home,"
commanded the leader. "I have a hankerin' atter a hot breakfast."

Everybody alighted except Westerfelt. The leader touched him with his
whip. "Will you git down, or do you want to be drug off like a saddle?"

"May I ask what you intend to do with me?" asked Westerfelt,
indifferently.

The leader laughed. "Put some turkey red calico stripes on that broad
back o' yorn, an' rub in some salt and pepper to cuore it up. We are
a-gwine to l'arn you that new settlers cayn't run this community an'
coolly turn the bluecoats agin us mount'in folks."

Westerfelt looked down on the masks upturned to him. Only one of the
band showed a revolver. Westerfelt believed him to be Toot Wambush.
He had not spoken a word, but was one of the two that had ridden close
behind him up the mountain. One of the white figures unstrapped a
pillow from the back part of his saddle. He held it between his knees
and gashed it with a knife.

"By hunkey! they're white uns," he grunted, as he took out a handful.
"I 'lowed they wus mixed; ef my ole woman knowed I'd tuck a poke uv 'er
best goose feathers ter dab on