An hour later he had covered the “hitherside” and “yon side” of a small mountain, and when he came to the highway again he found himself confronted by a half dozen armed horsemen whose appearance gave him apprehensive pause, because at once he recognized in them the officialdom of the law. The mounted travelers drew rein, and he halted at the roadside, nodding his greeting in affected unconcern.
The man who had been riding at the fore held in his left hand the halter line of a led horse, and now he looked down at the pedestrian and spoke in the familiar phrase of wayside amenity.
“Howdy, stranger, what mout yore name be?”
“Sim Colby from acrost Hemlock Mountain ways, 56 but I’ve done been west fer a year gone by, though, an’ I’m jest broguein’ along to’rds home.”
The questioner, a long, gaunt man with a face that had been scarred, but never altered out of its obstinate set, eyed him for a moment, then shot out the question:
“Did ye ever hear tell of Sam Mosebury over thet-away?”
It was lucky that the fugitive had given as his home a territory with which he had some familiarity. Now his reply came promptly.
“Yes, I knows him when I sees him. Some folks used ter give him a right hard name over thar, but I reckon he’s all right ef a man don’t aim ter crowd him too fur.”
“I don’t know how fur he mout of been crowded,” brusquely replied the man with the extra horse, “but he kilt a man in Rattletown yestiddy noon an’ tuck ter ther woods. I’m after him.”
The foot traveler expressed an appropriate interest, then added: