The road curved nearer to a line of blue hills, which sloped gradually
upward for scores of miles, until they became mountains. All were
clothed with forest, and every tree was heavy with snow. A line between
the trees showed where a path turned off from the main road and entered
the hills. As Harry approached it, he heard the crunching of horses'
hoofs in the snow. A warning instinct caused him to urge his own horse
forward, just as four riders came into view.

He saw that the men in the saddles, who were forty or fifty yards away,
were mountaineers, like Skelly. They wore fur caps; heavy blanket
shawls were drooped about their shoulders and every one carried a rifle.
As soon as they saw the boy they shouted to him to halt.

Harry's alert senses took alarm. They must have gained some knowledge
of his errand and its nature. Perhaps word had been sent from Pendleton
by those who were arraying themselves on the other side that he be
intercepted. When they cried to him to stop, he struck his horse
sharply, shouted to him, and bent far over against his neck. Colonel
Kenton had chosen well. The horse responded instantly. He seemed to
gather his whole powerful frame compactly together, and shot forward.
The nearest mountaineer fired, but the bullet merely whistled where the
horse and rider had been, and sent snow flying from the bushes on the
other side of the road. A second rifle cracked but it, too, missed the
flying target, and the mountaineers, turning into the main road, gave
pursuit.

Harry felt a cold shiver along his spine when the leading man pulled
trigger. It was the first time in his life that any one had ever fired
upon him, and the shiver returned with the second shot. And since they
had missed, confidence came. He knew that they could not overtake him,