There was short time for explanations. A few hurried words announced that the Boss, returning from his little tour, had come across the rangers riding on their mission of darkness, and overhearing their destination, had managed, by hard running and knowledge of the country, to arrive before them. “No time to alarm any one,” he explained, still panting from his exertions; “must stop them ourselves—not come for swag—come for your girl. Only over our bodies, Bones;” and with these few broken words the strangely assorted friends shook hands and looked lovingly into each other’s eyes, while the tramp of the horses came down to them on the fragrant breeze of the woods.
There were six rangers in all. One who appeared to be leader rode in front, while the others followed in a body. They flung themselves off their horses when they were opposite the house, and after a few muttered words from their captain, tethered the animals to a small tree, and walked confidently toward the gate.
Boss Morgan and Abe were crouching down under the shadow of the hedge, at the extreme end of the narrow passage. They were invisible to the rangers, who evidently reckoned on meeting little resistance in this isolated house. As the first man came forward and half turned to give some order to his comrades, both the friends recognized the stern profile and heavy mustache of Black Ferguson, the rejected suitor of Miss Carrie Sinclair. Honest Abe made a mental vow that he at least should never reach the door alive.
The ruffian stepped up to the gate and put his hand upon the latch. He started as a stentorian “Stand back!” came thundering out from among the bushes. In war, as in love, the miner was a man of few words.
“There’s no road this way,” explained another voice, with an infinite sadness and gentleness about it which was characteristic of its owner when the devil was rampant in his soul. The ranger recognized it. He remembered the soft languid address which he had listened to in the billiard-room of the Buckhurst Arms, and which had wound up by the mild orator putting his back against the door, drawing a derringer, and asking to see the sharper who would dare to force a passage. “It’s that infernal fool Durton,” he said, “and his white-faced friend.”
Both were well-known names in the country round. But the rangers were reckless and desperate men. They drew up to the gate in a body.
“Clear out of that!” said their leader, in a grim whisper; “you can’t save the girl. Go off with whole skins while you have the chance.”
The partners laughed.
“Then curse you, come on!”
The gate was flung open and the party fired a straggling volley, and made a fierce rush toward the gravelled walk.