He did not stir.  “You’d better go home,” he said, calmly.  “I don’t care a straw what becomes of me.  I’ve had enough of the whole business.  I have got as much right to live as anybody else, and I will not be driven from pillar to post by a gang of outlaws, headed by a coward.”  He drew a revolver, and, half cocking it, carelessly twirled the cylinder with his thumb.  “I’ve got five thirty-two-caliber shots here, and I think I can put some of them where they ought to go.”

She pushed the revolver down with her hand.  “No, no!” she cried, “you must not be reckless.”

“I am a pretty good shot,” he went on, bitterly, “and Toot Wambush shall be my first target, if I can pick him out.  Then the rest may do what they like with me.  You go home.  It will do you no good to be seen with me.”

She caught his arm.  “If you don’t go, I’ll stay right here with you.  Hush!  Listen!  What was—?  Great Heavens, they are coming.  Go!  Go!”

She glided swiftly to the door, and he followed her.  Coming along the Hawkbill road, about an eighth of a mile distant, they saw a body of horsemen, their heads and shoulders dressed in white.  His revolver slipped from his fingers and rang on a fallen anvil.  He picked it up mechanically, still staring into the moonlight.  Again he wondered if he were afraid, as he was that night at the hotel.

“Run! get out a horse,” she cried.  “Mr. Washburn is there; he will help you!  Go quick, for God’s sake!  I shall kill myself if they harm you.”  He stared at her an instant, then he put his revolver into his belt.

“All right, then, to oblige you; but you must hurry home!” He hastened across the street and rapped on the office door.

“Who’s thar?” called out Washburn from his bed.

“Me—­Westerfelt.”

There was a sound of bare feet on the floor inside and the door opened.

“What’s up?” asked Washburn, sleepily.

“I want my horse; there’s a gang of Whitecaps coming down the Hawkbill, and it looks like they are after me.”

“My God!” Washburn began fumbling along the wall.  “Where’s the matches?  Here’s one!” He scratched it and lighted his lantern.  “I’ll git yore hoss.  Stand heer, Mr. Westerfelt, an’ ef I ain’t quick enough make a dash on foot fer that strip o’ woods over thar in the field.  The fences would keep ’em from followin’, an’ you might dodge ’em.”

When Washburn had gone into the stable, Westerfelt looked towards Harriet.  She had walked only a few yards down the street and stood under the trees.  He stepped out into the moonlight and signalled her to go on, but she refused to move.  He heard Washburn swearing inside the stable, and asked what the matter was.

“I’ve got the bridles all tangled to hell,” he answered.

“Hurry; anything will do!”

The Whitecaps had left the mountain-side and were now in sight on the level road.  A minute more and Westerfelt would be a captive.  He might get across the street unnoticed and hide himself in the blacksmith’s shop, but they would be sure to look for him there.  If he tried to go through the fields they would see him and shoot him down like a rabbit.