"Father—father!" pleaded Nora, in terror, "come, let us go home; I am afraid."
"Your daughter is right, Mr. McGuire," added Poynter, a little more coolly. "It will do no good for us to talk further. My explanations can wait."
"So I presume," curtly responded the other, then adding, "Come, child, let us go," and leading Nora by the hand, he left the glade.
For a few moments Poynter stood gazing abstractedly in the direction they had taken, and then arousing himself, with a little laugh, turned upon his heel and walked briskly along a faintly-defined trail. The woods were open and free from undergrowth at this point, but after crossing a narrow tract of bare ground, and once more entering the timber, the path was thickly fringed on either side with bushes of hazel and oak.
After crossing a slight rise and down the valley once more, Poynter came in view of his own house—for that time and section, a perfect palace, a two-story frame, weather-boarded, and painted a neat cream-color. Why he had built this, when he was not at home one-tenth of his time, was a great puzzle to his neighbors, and many a siege of cross-questioning had old aunty Eunice to undergo.
Questions as to who her young master really was, if wealthy, and his reasons for making such frequent journeys; why he had not got married, and countless others, of equal importance. But the old negress knew how to keep a close tongue in her head, or to talk a great deal without saying any thing; so that when her visitors left, they were forced to acknowledge that they knew as much as they did before—and not much more.
Clay Poynter strode rapidly along, but his thoughts were not upon what he was doing; he was thinking of Nora McGuire. His head was bent forward, but he did not heed where he stepped, and with a sharp cry of surprise, he fell headlong, his foot having caught against a root or stub.
It is wonderful upon what slight points a man's life hinges; and Poynter had an instance of this fact furnished him at the same moment. Simultaneous with his cry, a double report echoed upon the air, and his hat fluttered from his head, and a sharp, tingling sensation in his shoulder told him that he was shot.
"Hurray, Bart, he's a goner!" shouted a voice, that the fallen man had no difficulty in recognizing.
"Bet ye! But it's halfers, mind ye now, Polk!" and at the same time two men broke out from the bushes, and hastened toward their intended victim.