“Eh? Jes’ lis’en, boys. Don’t he crow loud? Reckon you don’t know—why, hellow! Is’t you, Cap?” and the man lowered his weapon, his face expressing great surprise.
“I don’t know you—stand aside or I’ll give you cause to regret interfering with matters that don’t concern you,” snarled Haley, his revolver coming to a level.
“You will, eh? Is that the way you treat old pards, Jap Morton?” and the rifle was quickly raised to a level.
Would the man dare fire? In that dead, uncertain light, death to the maiden must almost assuredly follow.
“Curse you for a meddling rascal!” hissed Mark Haley, and his pistol spoke sharp and clear.
Like an echo the rifle responded. Then came a shrill cry—a heavy groan and dull fall; then more shots, a confused trampling—then all was still.
CHAPTER VI.
THE LOST TRAIL.
With the dawn of day, Archibald Hawksley emerged from the house, and set about his morning duties. Though he noticed the door was unbarred, he thought Fanny had forgot to secure it.
But he was not long deceived. As he entered the stable, a cry of rage and surprise burst from his lips. Before him lay the stiff and mangled body of his faithful mastiff.
One glance round the interior told him the stranger’s horse was missing, though all the others were safe. Scarcely knowing what to think, he rushed toward the house, where he was met by his wife, pale and agitated.