"What'd Sim say his name war?"
"Jim Whitley," returned the other, taking a long careful look up the valley.
"An' whar' from?"
"Sim say St. Louie, or some place like that. Sh—thar' he comes."
They half rose and crouching behind the log, pushed the cocked rifles through the leaves of a little bush, covering the horseman below.
"If he's a revenoo he'll sure see th' path ter th' still," whispered the one called Jake; "an' if he turns ter foller hit into th' cut drap him. If he goes on down th' branch, all right."
All unconscious of the rifles that wanted only the touch of an outlaw's finger to speak his death, the stranger pushed on his way past the unseen danger point toward the end of the valley where lay the road.
The lean mountaineers looked at each other. "Never seed hit," said one, showing his yellow teeth in a mirthless grin; "an' I done tole Cap las' night, hit was es plain es er main traveled road an' orter be kivered."
"Mebbe so," replied the other; "an' then agin he mighter ketched on an' 'lows ter fool us."
The other sprang up with an oath. "We uns aint got no call ter take chances," he growled; "best make sure." And with his rifle half raised, he looked anxiously along the trail, but the stranger had passed from view.