The anguish in her voice bespoke a deadly fear. Sevier darted toward the sound. Again the voice rang out, this time in a cry of despair, followed by a hoarse shout of triumph. And the bushes parted and a maddened horse, riderless and with blood-smears on his flank, plunged out and past the borderer.
Throwing caution to the winds, Sevier plunged ahead. A familiar voice was exclaiming:
“Run ye down, pretty bird, didn’t I? Wasn’t fit for ye to wipe yer leetle feet on—an’ now!”
Sevier became a shadow, but the speaker obviously attributed any noise he had heard to the mad plunges of the riderless horse, for he continued:
“Hajason can play some folks double, but not me, young woman. Now ye quit that foolishness an’ git up on yer pins, or it’ll be the worse for ye.”
Parting some cedar boughs, Sevier beheld Lon Hester. The villain was still wearing his bedraggled cock’s feather and was standing beside his horse and staring evilly at the limp form of Elsie Tonpit, where she lay unconscious after being unseated by her crazed mount. The little drama was clear; the girl had escaped and Hester had pursued and shot her horse.
“—— if she ain’t pretty’s a picter,” gloated Hester, his face growing bestial.
The girl was alive and Sevier waited. Hester continued, speaking aloud to check off certain data:
“I can’t go back to Jonesboro. McGillivray might pay a ransom, an’ he might string me up without even sayin’ thank ye. I reckon I’ll keep her for myself, seein’ as nobody else ’pears to want her.”
It was at this point that Sevier noiselessly stepped from cover and quietly informed—