“That was too close for fun—­are you all there?” asked Armitage.

“Still in it; but Chauvenet’s friend won’t miss every time.  There’s murder in his eye.  The big fellow seemed to be trying to shoot his own horse.”

“Oh, he’s a knife and sack man and clumsy with the gun.”

They moved slowly forward now and Armitage sent his horse across the rough ditch at the roadside to get his bearings.  The fog seemed at the point of breaking, and the mass about them shifted and drifted in the growing light.

“This is my land, sure enough.  Lord, man, I wish you’d get out of this and go home.  You see they’re an ugly lot and don’t use toy pistols.”

“Remember the potato sack!  That’s my watchword,” laughed Claiborne.

They rode with their eyes straight ahead, peering through the breaking, floating mist.  It was now so clear and light that they could see the wood at either hand, though fifty yards ahead in every direction the fog still lay like a barricade.

“I should value a change of raiment,” observed Armitage.  “There was an advantage in armor—­your duds might get rusty on a damp excursion, but your shirt wouldn’t stick to your hide.”

“Who cares?  Those devils are pretty quiet, and the little sergeant is about due to bump into them again.”

They had come to a gradual turn in the road at a point where a steep, wooded incline swept up on the left.  On the right lay the old hunting preserve and Armitage’s bungalow.  As they drew into the curve they heard a revolver crack twice, as before, followed by answering shots and cries and the thump of hoofs.

“Ohee!  Oscar has struck them again.  Steady now!  Watch your horse!” And Armitage raised his arm high above his head and fired twice as a warning to Oscar.

The distance between the contending parties was shorter now than at the first meeting, and Armitage and Claiborne bent forward in their saddles, talking softly to their horses, that had danced wildly at Armitage’s shots.

“Lord! if we can crowd them in here now and back to the Port!”

“There!”

Exclamations died on their lips at the instant.  Ahead of them lay the fog, rising and breaking in soft folds, and behind it men yelled and several shots snapped spitefully on the heavy air.  Then a curious picture disclosed itself just at the edge of the vapor, as though it were a curtain through which actors in a drama emerged upon a stage.  Zmai and Chauvenet flashed into view suddenly, and close behind them, Oscar, yelling like mad.  He drove his horse between the two men, threw himself flat as Zmai fired at him, and turned and waved his hat and laughed at them; then, just before his horse reached Claiborne and Armitage, he checked its speed abruptly, flung it about and then charged back, still yelling, upon the amazed foe.

“He’s crazy—­he’s gone clean out of his head!” muttered Claiborne, restraining his horse with difficulty.  “What do you make of it?”