talking on the porch and he halted. He could neither cross the
river nor get around the house by the rear--the ridge was too
steep--so he drew off into the bushes, where he had to wait
another hour before the talking ceased. There was only one more
house now between him and the mouth of the creek, where he would
be safe, and he made up his mind to dash by it. That house, too,
was lighted and the sound of fiddling struck his ears. He would
give them a surprise; so he gathered his reins and Winchester in
his left hand, drew his revolver with his right, and within thirty
yards started his horse into a run, yelling like an Indian and
firing his pistol in the air. As he swept by, two or three figures
dashed pell-mell indoors, and he shouted derisively:

"Run, damn ye, run!" They were running for their guns, he knew,
but the taunt would hurt and he was pleased. As he swept by the
edge of a cornfield, there was a flash of light from the base of a
cliff straight across, and a bullet sang over him, then another
and another, but he sped on, cursing and yelling and shooting his
own Winchester up in the air--all harmless, useless, but just to
hurl defiance and taunt them with his safety. His father's house
was not far away, there was no sound of pursuit, and when he
reached the river he drew down to a walk and stopped short in a
shadow. Something had clicked in the bushes above him and he bent
over his saddle and lay close to his horse's neck. The moon was
rising behind him and its light was creeping toward him through
the bushes. In a moment he would be full in its yellow light, and
he was slipping from his horse to dart aside into the bushes, when
a voice ahead of him called sharply:

"That you, Dave?"