Frank's blood ran cold and sluggish in his veins. The spring night had seemed warm and sweet, filled with the droning of insects; but now there was a bitter chill in the air, and the white moonlight seemed to take on a crimson tinge, as of blood.
The boy's nature rebelled against the thought of meeting death in such a manner. It was spring-time amid the mountains; with him it was the spring-time of life. He had enjoyed the beautiful world, and felt strong and brave to face anything that might come; but this he had not reckoned on, and it was something to cause the stoutest heart to shake.
Over the eastern mountains, craggy, wild, barren or pine-clad, the gibbous moon swung higher and higher. The heavens were full of stars, and every star seemed to be an eye that was watching to witness the consummation of the tragedy down there in that little valley, through which Lost Creek flowed on to its unknown destination.
How still it was!
The silence was broken by a sound that made every black-hooded man start and listen.
Sweet and mellow and musical, from afar through the peaceful night, came the clear notes of a bugle.
Ta-ra-ta-ra-ta-ra-tar! Ta-ra-ta-ra-ta-ra-tar!
A fierce exclamation broke from the lips of the leader of the Black Caps, and he grated:
"Muriel, by ther livin' gods! He's comin' hyar! Quick, boys—finish this job, an' git!"
"Stop, Wade Miller!" cried Frank, commandingly. "If that is Muriel, wait for him—let him pronounce our fate. He is the chief of you all, and he shall say if we are revenue spies."