CHAPTER IX.
Night.
The dark forms of a group of men were brought out in sharp contrast against the fitful light of a small brushwood fire built in a sheltered spot among the hills.
A few faint stars dotted the moonless sky, and the night air was raw with the frosty breath of late October.
Some of the men were sitting about on scattered blocks of rejected stone, left in the abandoned quarry years before when the abutment of a bridge had been built over a small, swift stream near by, but the great number of raiders stood in careless attitudes around the fire, talking or smoking.
"Captain's late," one of the men in the foreground said.
"I heard the ring of Black Devil's hoofs comin' up the hill just a moment ago," a raider answered.
As he spoke, he thrust a fresh supply of brush into the fire, and briskly stirred the bed of embers until it glowed with sudden fervor, while a shower of sparks arose and fluttered into the night like a swarm of fireflies rudely disturbed.
"Be saving of the brush," cautioned one of the raiders. "There may be officers of the law abroad tonight."
"It is money to them if they bag us," answered the other, with an expressive shrug of the shoulders and a hoarse laugh. "There's a reward of two hundred dollars offered for information concerning the raiders, or night-riders, as some folks call us."