Sandy Flash saw the recognition. He grinned again. “You'll know your friend, another time,” he said, sprang five feet backward, whirled, gained the cover of the house, and was mounting his horse among the bushes at the bottom of the garden, before any of the others reached Gilbert, who was still standing as if thunder-struck.
By this time Sandy Flash had leaped the hedge and was careering like lightning towards the shelter of the woods. The interest now turned upon Gilbert Potter, who was very taciturn and thoughtful, and had little to relate. They noticed, however, that his eyes were turned often and inquiringly upon Alfred Barton, and that the latter as steadily avoided meeting them.
When Gilbert went to bring Roger, who had quietly waited at the crossing of the roads, Deb. Smith suddenly made her appearance.
“I seen it all,” she said. “I was a bit up the road, but I seen it. You shouldn't ha' shot, Mr. Gilbert, though it isn't him that's born to be hit with a bullet; but you're safe enough from his bullets, anyhow—whatever happens, you're safe!”
“What do you mean, Deborah?” he exclaimed, as she almost repeated to him Sandy Flash's very words.
“I mean what I say,” she answered. “You wouldn't be afeard, but it'll be a comfort to your mother. I must have a drink o' whiskey after that sight.”
With these words she elbowed her way into the barroom. Most of the Kennett Volunteers were there engaged in carrying out a similar resolution. They would gladly have kept the whole occurrence secret, but that was impossible. It was known all over the country, in three days, and the story of it has not yet died out of the local annals.