“Heer you are; which door, back or front?” cried Washburn.

“Front, quick!  I’ve got to run for it!  I’m a good mind to stand and make a fight of it.”

“Oh no; hell, no!  Mr. Westerfelt.”

Washburn slid the big door open and kicked the horse in the stomach as he led him out.

“Git up, quick!  They are at the branch.  Blast it, they heerd the door—­they’ve broke into a gallop!”

As Westerfelt put his foot into the stirrup he saw Harriet Floyd glide out of sight into the blacksmith’s shop.  She had determined not to desert him.  As he sprang up, the girth snapped, and the saddle and blanket fell under his feet.

“God, they are on us!” gasped Washburn.  One of the gang raised a shout, and they came on with increased speed.

“Up!  Up!” cried Washburn, kicking the saddle out of his way.  “Quick!  What’s the matter?” Westerfelt felt a twinge in his old wound as he tried to mount.  Washburn caught one of his legs and lifted him on his horse.

Westerfelt spurred the horse furiously, but the animal plunged, stumbled, and came to his knees—­the bridle-rein had caught his foot.  The foremost of the gang was now within twenty yards of him.

“Halt thar!” he yelled.

Westerfelt drew his horse up and continued to lash him with his bridle-rein.

“Shoot his hoss, but don’t tetch him!” was the next command.

Several revolvers went off.  Westerfelt’s horse swayed at the rump and then ran sideways across the street and fell against a rail fence.  Westerfelt alighted on his feet.  He turned and drew his revolver, but just then his horse rolled over against his legs and knocked the weapon from his hand.  It struck the belly of the horse and bounded into the middle of the street.

“Ha, we’ve got ye!” jeered the leader, as he and two or three others covered Westerfelt with their revolvers.

Chapter XIII

The gang formed a semi-circle round Westerfelt and his horse.  In their white caps and sheets they appeared ghostly and hideous, as they looked down at him through the eye-holes of their masks.  One of them held a coil of new rope and tantalizingly swung it back and forth before his face.

“You must go with us up the Hawkbill fer a little moonlight picnic,” he jeered.  “We’ve picked out a tree up thar that leans spank over a cliff five hundred feet from the bottom.  Ef the rope broke, ur yore noggin slipped through the noose, you’d never know how come you so.”

“He’s got to have some’n to ride,” suggested another muffled voice; “we have done his horse up.”

“Well, he’s got a-plenty, an’ he won’t need ’em atter our ja’nt,” jested the man with the rope.  “You uns back thar, that hain’t doin’ nothin’ but lookin’ purty, go in the stable and trot out some’n fer ’im to ride; doggoned ef I want ’im straddled behind me.  His ha’nt ’ud ride with me every time I passed over the Hawkbill.”