“Yes; who are you?” called back the driver.
“Don’t you know me, Hank Babcock?” called the other, with a laugh.
“I sort of thought it was you, Hank, but wasn’t sure.”
“You can be sure of it now; wait a minute till I get out of your way; I’ll turn aside and let you pass.”
Everything was quiet for a moment, except the wind, the snuffing of his horse, and the sound of his hoofs, as he was forced with some trouble close to the trees which grew near the highway.
“Now, it’s all right; go ahead,” called Hank Babcock.
Lenman spoke to his animals and they moved forward. When opposite the horseman, another flash revealed him sitting astride the animal, a few feet to one side. He called a cheery good-night as he drew back, after the stage had passed, and continued his course.
“Driver,” said Wagstaff, when they were moving again; “where is the spot you thought it likely we would meet him?”
“We’re close to it now; you notice the road goes down a little, but not enough for me to put on the brake; have your shootin’ irons ready, for, somehow or other, I feel in my bones that you’ll need ’em.”
“Where’s that chap that was here a minute ago?” asked Jim, with as much tremor in his voice as his friend.