The fences would keep 'em from followin', an' you might dodge 'em."

When Washburn had gone into the stable, Westerfelt looked towards
Harriet. She had walked only a few yards down the street and stood
under the trees. He stepped out into the moonlight and signalled her
to go on, but she refused to move. He heard Washburn swearing inside
the stable, and asked what the matter was.

"I've got the bridles all tangled to hell," he answered.

"Hurry; anything will do!"

The Whitecaps had left the mountain-side and were now in sight on the
level road. A minute more and Westerfelt would be a captive. He might
get across the street unnoticed and hide himself in the blacksmith's
shop, but they would be sure to look for him there. If he tried to go
through the fields they would see him and shoot him down like a rabbit.

"Heer you are; which door, back or front?" cried Washburn.

"Front, quick! I've got to run for it! I'm a good mind to stand and
make a fight of it."

"Oh no; hell, no! Mr. Westerfelt."

Washburn slid the big door open and kicked the horse in the stomach as
he led him out.

"Git up, quick! They are at the branch. Blast it, they heerd the
door--they've broke into a gallop!"