She glided swiftly to the door, and he followed her. Coming along the
Hawkbill road, about an eighth of a mile distant, they saw a body of
horsemen, their heads and shoulders dressed in white. His revolver
slipped from his fingers and rang on a fallen anvil. He picked it up
mechanically, still staring into the moonlight. Again he wondered if
he were afraid, as he was that night at the hotel.

"Run! get out a horse," she cried. "Mr. Washburn is there; he will
help you! Go quick, for God's sake! I shall kill myself if they harm
you." He stared at her an instant, then he put his revolver into his
belt.

"All right, then, to oblige you; but you must hurry home!" He hastened
across the street and rapped on the office door.

"Who's thar?" called out Washburn from his bed.

"Me--Westerfelt."

There was a sound of bare feet on the floor inside and the door opened.

"What's up?" asked Washburn, sleepily.

"I want my horse; there's a gang of Whitecaps coming down the Hawkbill,
and it looks like they are after me."

"My God!" Washburn began fumbling along the wall. "Where's the
matches? Here's one!" He scratched it and lighted his lantern. "I'll
git yore hoss. Stand heer, Mr. Westerfelt, an' ef I ain't quick enough
make a dash on foot fer that strip o' woods over thar in the field.