Soon the sound of a small cavalcade, riding rapidly along the country roads, broke into the quiet of the night, perchance arousing some light sleeper as it passed, who, after listening drowsily to the retreating hoof-beats as they died away in the distance, would turn and mutter, "The Night Riders," then drift into slumber again.
"Where are we going?" asked Milt, who rode by the side of Steve.
"To make one less toll-gate."
"Which one?" asked Milt, with an interest he did not care to betray.
"It's the Cross-Roads Gate, I think. You can look for a lot o' fun tonight if it's that one, an' we get Maggie O'Flynn stirred up. She's a regular circus in herself." Steve chuckled audibly at the prospective entertainment.
"It will be something like stirring up a den of wild-cats, not counting in Pat at all," Milt admitted.
"Pat don't count; he's a coward, through and through. The fun will all be furnished by Maggie."
"And we fellows had better look sharp," cautioned Milt. "Maggie's a pretty good shot, I've heard."
"We've seen to it that she won't have a chance to draw a bead on any of us," admitted Steve. "She keeps a rifle at the gate, but one of the neighbors borrowed it this very mornin' to shoot a hawk, an' somehow forgot to carry it back. He won't think of it till in the mornin'. Maggie's tongue is all that's left to guard the gate."
"And under ordinary circumstances that's sufficient," admitted Milt.