"Rangers; fifty of them, I judge, an' they'll never pass here without
rummaging around. Quick now, under cover."

"But what about yourself?"

"Don't worry about me; those fellows haven't any evidence against
me--yet. They're after you."

I was through the intervening door with a bound, and an instant later had
burrowed under the crumpled papers. The shifting of the sun had left this
corner of the repair shop in shadow, but I was scarcely outstretched in
my hastily improvised hiding place, when I heard the blacksmith calmly
open his outer door, where he stood smoking, clad in leathern apron,
awaiting the approaching horsemen. They swept about the corner of the
smithy almost at the same moment, pulling up their tired horses at sight
of him. From amid the thud of hoofs, and the rattle of accoutrements, a
voice spoke sharply:

"So you're here, Farrell, you old rebel hypocrite. Well, what are you
hiding now?"

"I was not aware that I had anything to hide, Captain Grant," was the
dignified response. "This is my shop, an' where I should be."

"Oh, hell! We all know you well enough, you old fox, and we'll catch you
red-handed yet, and hang you. But we're not hunting after your kind
to-day. Did you see anything of a fellow in scarlet jacket along here
last night, or this morning?"

I failed to catch Farrell's answer, but the voice of the officer was