It was some time after dark before Clay Poynter neared the rendezvous of the border outlaws, despite the speed at which he traveled. But he was in time, and after satisfying the sentinel of his identity, he hastened at once to the presence of "White Crees," as his aged friend was universally termed by his men and comrades.
He was lying at full length upon the ground, one elbow propping his head as he gazed thoughtfully into the fire, crackling merrily before him. There was a kind of half-frown upon his face and a fiery gleam in his full black eyes, that told Poynter he was unusually excited about something.
"Well, sir, what is it?" quickly asked Crees, as he raised his head at the young man's approach.
"Bad news, I fear. This retreat is known—"
"The devil!"
"Yes; and you will be attacked to-night by the vigilance committee, in full force," coolly rejoined Poynter.
"Bad enough, I must say. But are you certain?"
"If hearing the entire plan, detailed by the man that found you out, is enough, I am."
"So—so!" muttered the outlaw chief.
"Well, your decision," impatiently said Clay, "what is it?"
"We must run for it. Not but that we are strong enough to stand our ground, if such a course would be prudent, but we must tread lightly. The country is hot enough now, and a collision, where blood would be shed, must be avoided."
"Very well, then; I want one man for duty concerning myself, as a sort of witness. Can I have him?"
"A dozen, if you say so," was the cordial reply. "Who is he?"
"Jack Fyffe."
"Hyar I be, square, an' mighty glad ef I kin help ye any."
"Then saddle our horses as quick as possible, please. If I had time," again turning to the outlaw leader, "I would explain, as I have much to tell; but some other time must do. Things are working around a little, and I may come out right side up after all."
"Good! and I, too, have done a good job to-day."
"So? Where'll we find you?"
"Tell Jack to lead you to the north side of "Bald Hill," where the branch cuts through the "Wildcat Range." He knows it well."
"Well, I must be off, and the sooner you are, the better. It's nearly ten o'clock now, and they'll be along by one, at the latest."
"So they may," laughed the outlaw, "but thanks to your warning, they'll find little to satisfy their appetite. Remember, 'Bald Hill.'"
"All right!" and then the young man vaulted into the saddle as Fyffe led up the horses, and the two men dashed rapidly along the road.
"Now Jack, old fellow," cried Poynter, "we must ride as if the 'gentleman in black' was at our horses' tails, or we'll be too late."
"Whar to?"
"My house. Do you know a path that we can go, so as to avoid meeting our friends who'll take the main road?"
"Bet ye! It's rough ridin' though, but bein's it's shorter, 'twon't take no longer. What's the biz?"
Thereupon Poynter succinctly stated what he had heard while eavesdropping the two precious scoundrels, adding:
"It isn't that I care so much for the house, but we must take that Sprowl a prisoner. He knows enough to clear me, and if he can prove what he said, to bring this Dement or Meagreson to justice; and that's just my hand, now."
"We'll do it! Ef not in the act, we'll nab him at his own shanty. Then a taste o' the med'cin' 'at they gi'n you'll bring 'im to tarms, I reckon. Leastwise we kin try it. Meagreson, ye said?"
"Yes; do you know him?"
"Oh no, I guess not! Lord, won't the ol' man be glad!"
"Crees, do you mean?"
"Look out! Hyar's the cut-off. Foller me cluss an' look out for yur head."
They now diverged from the road, into a path just allowing one horse to pass at a time, and the riders were forced to stoop low along their horses' necks to keep from being struck by the low-hanging limbs. This fact effectually put a stop to all conversation, for the time being.
Presently the ground grew more open, although they still continued in single file, and as they rose the crest of a hill, Fyffe exclaimed, in a glad tone:
"It's all hunky so fur, anyhow, square. Ef it stays so fer ten minutes longer, we'll save 'em both."
"Are we so near, then?"
"Leetle better 'n a mile. See, thar's the branch."
"Good! I know where we are now. Spur along; we've no time to lose."
In less than the time named the horsemen drew rein at the western fence of the yard, and speedily hitching the animals, they stealthily advanced until the rear of the house was gained. After pausing for a moment to listen, and hearing nothing suspicious, they made the circuit of the building; thus satisfying themselves that the would-be incendiary had not yet arrived.
"We're in good time, Jack," whispered Poynter, joyfully, "and 'll get him yet. Do you hide here in front, and I'll do the same behind. If you need help, whistle and I'll come."
"Help, ag'in' thet little or'nary cuss? Bah! I'd take him 'ith one finger."
"So much the better, then. But look sharp."
"Shall I nab 'im as soon as I see him?"
"No; I guess we'd better let him start a blaze first. Then he can't deny but what that was his intention. Yes, that's the best way."
"All right then. Better lumber down, though, fer ef he shed cotch a glimpse o' either on us, it's all played," cautioned Fyffe.
This advice was too good not to be followed, and in a moment more, all was still and silent about the premises. Poynter's mind was greatly excited, as well it might be, at the facts he had learned on that day; and as the gloomy prospect that had spread over his future began to lighten, a thousand air-castles were built, over all of which the pleasing form of Nora McGuire, his little rosy Irish lass, reigned as queen—need we state who was the king?
But he was suddenly aroused from his reverie, by the light tramp of a man's feet, and glancing up, he saw a dim, shadow-like figure, cautiously approaching the house, at a little to his left. From his position, close beside the slightly elevated porch that stood in the rear of the kitchen, the door of which led out upon it, Poynter was perfectly hidden, while yet he could quite plainly note the intruder's every movement.
This person lightly stepped upon the porch, and cautiously tried the door, but it was fastened. Then he went to one of the rear windows, and after a slight effort, raised it; then propping it up with a stick, drew himself through the aperture.
Listening intently, Poynter heard him groping around the room, and then after a few moments' silence, he saw a faint, flickering light spring up. Gliding to the window, he peered through, and saw Wesley Sprowl igniting a short piece of tallow-dip by the aid of a match.
Poynter knew now that he had his game secure, and crept around the building, where he was met by Jack Fyffe, who had been alarmed by the slight noise, and was just coming around to investigate it.
"Is it him?"
"Yes," whispered Poynter, "but we must let him start the fire first, before we interrupt him. Then as I jump through the window, do you burst in the back door and put out the blaze. I'll 'tend to him."
"Jest as you say, square; on'y I'd like to gi'n the varmint a squoze, like, jest for beans," grunted Fyffe, as he followed Poynter around the building.
They could still see the light, and hear an increased rattling in the room, and cautiously peering in at one corner of the window, the two men saw the incendiary splitting fine kindlings with the knife he had drawn from his belt. Poynter could scarcely restrain his passion, at noting how coolly and deliberately the dastardly scoundrel set about his work; but the pressure of Jack Fyffe's hand upon his arm, recalled his presence of mind.
When a little pile of the shavings were made Sprowl piled over them some splinters of wood that lay beside the kitchen-stove, and then applied the lighted candle to the heap. It instantly ignited, the tiny blaze creeping along, thrusting out its forked tongue like a serpent; at which the incendiary gave a chuckle of delight, and rising, dropped a chair over the fire.
He next grasped the table, with the same intention, but Poynter had seen enough, and drawing himself up by the arms, he dropped lightly through the window—the noise made by Sprowl in dragging the table effectually drowning his footsteps. One stride, and the large, muscular right hand of Clay Poynter tightly clasped the villain by the neck, compressing it as if in a vice.
Jack Fyffe was in no wise behindhand, but speedily followed his leader through the open window, thinking that better than to demolish the door, especially as there was no particularly urgent call for haste; and with a few shoves of his huge foot, kicked the brands into the capacious fireplace, it having done no damage, save slightly scorching the chairs and floor.
"It may be fun to you, square, da'say 'tis, but ef you 'xpects to git any 'fessions outen thet critter, you'd do well to let up a little," admonished Jack, as he bent forward to peer into the face of the prisoner.
And there was ample foundation for his warning, for in his rage at the cowardly miscreant's action, Poynter threw the whole power of his arm into the grasp, and Sprowl was already senseless. His eyes were widely protruding, and his open mouth and lolling tongue, together with his rapidly-blackening, distorted features, rendered him a horrible, repulsive sight.
"You're right, Jack," said Poynter, as he relaxed his grip and suffered Sprowl to drop upon the floor, then bending over him, he poured a little brandy down his throat, although Jack grumbled at the sacrilege.
In a few moments Sprowl had recovered sufficiently to sit up, thoroughly bewildered at the sudden reverse he had experienced. But his captors did not give him time to ponder over it, or ask questions, as it was growing late, and for obvious reasons they did not care to remain longer than was absolutely necessary in the neighborhood.
So, after securely binding the incendiary's hands behind his back, the two men, highly elated at their complete success, led the way to where the horses were hitched.
"You're the lightest, Jack," said Poynter; "better take him up behind you on the horse."
"Durn the thief!" growled Fyffe, "let 'im tramp it; 't'll do him good."
"So he might; but there's no telling whom we may meet, and I won't lose him now. But if you object, he can ride with me."
"I didn't think o' that, square. Jest you hyste him up arter I mount."
This was speedily done, and Sprowl secured to the body of his captor, thus effectually preventing all hopes of an escape. Then leaving the premises they entered the road, proceeding at a moderate pace, as they were not desirous of arousing any of the neighbors who might chance to be at home.
For a couple of hours they rode on without halting, when they both drew rein simultaneously, bending forward in the saddles, and listening eagerly. It was a sharp, clear report, followed by what appeared an irregular volley of small-arms, resounding all about them as if an entire army was engaged in battle.
But the two men were far too well versed in the peculiarities of that portion of the country not to know that it was but the multiplied reverberations of the one first shot.
"Listen!" exclaimed Poynter, guardedly, "don't you hear the click of shoes upon the stones?"
"Y'ur right, by the 'tarnal! It's the vigilantys, I reckon. Better kiver."
"To the left," muttered Poynter, leading the way. "Hold the reins while I keep the horses from neighing. And mark you, Sprowl, those are your friends, but if you utter so much as a whisper, by the God above me, I will shoot you like a dog! You know I keep my word. They may hunt us, but it would be too late to do you any good!" hissed the young man as he passed by the prisoner.
They were scarcely a dozen feet from the road, upon a little lower ground, from whence they could have a clear view of anybody passing by. There was no moon, and the dense growth of underbrush close behind them, added to the dark color of their horses, rendered discovery very improbable, if not impossible.
Poynter stood by the animals' heads, one hand upon the muzzle of each, to check any inclination they might feel for whickering during the passage of the horsemen. They had not long to wait.
Scarcely had these precautions been taken, when the foremost man came in sight, and then the main body. Their oaths and curses, if nothing else, would have identified them as the band of vigilantes, returning from an unsuccessful search for the outlaws, thanks to Poynter's timely warning.
After waiting a few minutes, until satisfied that the entire band had passed, the ambushed men again entered the road, proceeding for some little distance in silence. Then Clay spoke:
"Those fellows weren't in the best of humor, eh, Jack?"
"Not overly much. Wal, it shows 'at the boys got cl'ar, anyhow. But see, hyar's the cut-off."
"Leading to Bald Hill?"
"Yas," and Fyffe led the way along a narrow, irregular path.