Westerfelt's horse had been standing on the side of a little slope, and
the soft earth suddenly gave way beneath his hind feet, and in
regaining a firm footing he made a considerable noise. There was
nothing now for Westerfelt to do but to put a bold face on the matter.

"Get up," he said, guiding his horse down towards the men.

"Halt!" commanded one of the moonshiners. All three of them were now
huddled behind the wagon.

"Hello!" answered Westerfelt, drawing rein; "I'm lookin' for an iron
gray, flea-bitten horse that strayed away from the livery-stable this
morning; have you fellows seen anything of him?"

"No, I hain't." This in a dogged tone from a slouched hat just above a
whiskey barrel.

There was a pause.

"I don't think anybody could have taken him," continued Westerfelt,
pleasantly.

"Hain't seed 'im." The speaker struck the wagon-bed with his rifle as
he was trying to put it down behind the barrels without being seen.

"The left hand road leads to town, I believe?" said Westerfelt, riding
away.

"Yes, but take the right at the next fork."