"Howdy."
Gard wrung the water from his wet clothes and waited. One of the horsemen drew a paper from his pocket.
"Haven't seen a man like this anywhere, have you?" and read from the paper.
"'Loose, black clothes, broad, stiff-brimmed hat, shaven lips, black beard, smooth hair, of sect called Dunkers, carrying saddle-bags, riding bay horse with white forefoot.'"
Gard considered.
"I wouldn't gamble on the fo' foot," he said, slowly, "but there was an individual resembling otherwise that lucid and cyarefully boiled description over 'yond the ridge. He gave me a printed little damn sheet which contained discourteous ref'ences to hell-fire. But"—thoughtfully—"that ho'se, 'pears to me his feet matched."
"Never mind. That's the man. They said he went over the ridge. Where'd he go from then?"
"He 'peared to be pointed for Harper's Ferry."
"Well, we've lost him, then."