“He’s bad hurt—­’bout ter die; don’t be a fool!”

“Huh!  Doc Lash sent me word he was safe.  I didn’t hurt ’im; but he did me; he damaged my feelings, and I want to pay ’im fer it.  Are you fellers goin’ back on me?”

“Not this chicken,” a voice muttered, and a white form whipped his horse over to Wambush’s.  “I’m with you,” said another.  Then there was a clamor of voices, and all the gang gathered round Wambush.  He chuckled and swore softly.  “That’s the stuff!” he said.  “Them’s Cohutta men a-talkin’; you kin bet yore sweet life.”

Harriet turned to Westerfelt.  “They are drinking,” she said.  “Haven’t you got a pistol?”

“No.”

“You stay here then; don’t let them see you; I’m going up-stairs and speak to Toot from the veranda.  It’s the only chance.  Sh!”

She did not wait for a reply, but opened the door noiselessly and went out into the hall.  He heard the rustle of her skirts as she went up the stairs.  A moment later the door leading to the veranda on the floor above opened with a creak, and she appeared over the heads of the band.

“Toot!  Toot Wambush!” she called out in a clear, steady voice.  “I want to speak to you!”

Wambush, in a spirit of bravado, had just ridden on to the veranda, and could hear nothing above the thunderous clatter of his horse’s hoofs on the floor.

“Here, thar, you jail-bird, yore wanted!” cried out the leader.  “Stop that infernal racket!”

“What is it?” asked Wambush, riding back among his fellows.

“Toot Wambush!” Harriet repeated.

He looked up at her.  “What do you want?” he asked, doggedly, after gazing up at her steadily for a moment.

“Get away as fast as you can,” she replied.  “His wound has broke again.  He’s bleeding to death!”

“Well, that’s certainly good news!” Wambush did not move.

“You’d better go,” she urged.  “It will be wilful murder.  You made the attack.  He was unarmed, and you used a pistol and a knife.  Do you want to be hung?”

He sat on his horse silent and motionless, his face upraised in the full moonlight.  There was no sound except the champing of bits, the creaking of saddles.

“Come on, Toot,” urged the leader in a low tone.  “You’ve settled yore man’s hash; what more do you want?  We’ve got you out o’ jail, now let us put you whar you’ll be safe from the law.”

Wambush had not taken his eyes from the girl.  He now spoke as if his words were meant for her only.

“If I go,” he said, “will you come?  Will you follow me?  You know I’m not a-goin’ to leave ’thout you, Harriet.”

It seemed to Westerfelt that she hesitated before speaking, and at that moment a realization of what she had become to him and what she doubtless was to Wambush came upon him with such stunning force that he forgot even his peril in contemplating what seemed almost as bad as death.