"Git inter th' bresh thar' quick an' do's I tell ye. Don't stop t' plaver. Git! An' gimme yer gun."
Too astonished to do anything else, Jim obeyed, and hastily thrusting the rifle under a pile of leaves by a log near by, the moonshiner forced his companion before him through the underbrush to a big rock some distance from the road. The sound of the galloping horse came louder and louder.
"Stand thar' behin' that rock 'n if ye stir I'll kill ye," whispered Jake; and taking a position behind a tree where he could watch Jim as well as the road, he waited with rifle cocked and murder written in every line of his hard face.
Nearer and nearer came the galloping horse. Whitley was fascinated and moved slightly so that he could peep over the rock. A low hiss from Jake fell upon his ear like the warning hiss of a serpent, and half turning, he saw the rifle pointing full at him. He nodded his head, and placing his finger upon his lips to indicate that he understood, turned his face toward the road again, just as the horse and his rider came into view.
The animal, though going freely, was covered with dust and dripping with sweat, which showed a creamy lather on his flanks, and where the bridle reins touched his neck. The rider wore a blue flannel shirt, open at the throat, corduroy trousers, tucked in long boots, and a black slouch hat, with the brim turned up in front. At his belt hung two heavy revolvers, and across the saddle he held a Winchester ready for instant use. He sat his horse easily as one accustomed to much riding, but like the animal, he showed the strain of a hard race.
Whitley was so wrought up that all these details impressed themselves upon his mind in an instant, and it seemed hours from the moment the horseman appeared until he was opposite the rock, though it could have been but a few seconds.
The watcher caught one glimpse of the rider's face, square jawed, keen eyed, determined, alert, stained by wind and weather.
"Crack!" went the rifle behind Whitley.
Like a flash the weapon of the rider flew to his shoulder. "Crack!" and the bark flew from the tree within an inch of Jake's face.
Whitley saw the spurs strike and the rider lean forward in his saddle to meet the spring of his horse. "Crack!" Jake's rifle spoke again. A mocking laugh came back from the road as the flying horseman passed from sight. Then, "I'll see you later," came in ringing tones, and the thud, thud, thud, of the galloping horse died away in the distance.