“Oh, what are they here for?” cried Grace, timidly clinging to Tom’s arm.
“Fire him, men!”
A struggling form in the grasp of the six young outlaws was forcibly propelled forward, landed on the porch steps and rolled over on the gravel walk.
“Cut for it!” came the sharp mandate.
The Black Caps vanished as if by magic. Tom stared hard. Grace, trembling with excitement, gazed vaguely at the figure arising to its feet.
“Why,” she faltered, catching sight of the terrified face of the unwilling visitor, “it is Mart Walters!”
It was Mart, indeed, and he was a sight. From head to foot loose fluttering feathers waved ghost-like in the night breeze. Mart was not bound now, but the gag was still in his mouth. He cast one appalled glance at Grace and Tom, tore the gag loose and uttered a shrill yell of rage and chagrin. Then, throwing his hands above his head, he, too, disappeared.
“What does it all mean, Tom?” quavered Grace with a bloodless face. “There—there is somebody else!”
She shrank back anew with the words.
“It’s all right,” Tom reassured her. “It is Ben Dixon.”