“Come, Jack, let us ride faster; I am in a hurry,” said Herbert, when they were perhaps a quarter of a mile distant from the cabin.
They emerged from the forest, and could now see the cottage and its surroundings. They saw something that almost paralyzed them.
George Melville, with a rope round his neck, stood beneath a tree. Col. Warner was up in the tree swinging the rope over a branch, while Brown, big, burly and brutal, pinioned the helpless young man in his strong arms.
“Good heavens! Do you see that?” exclaimed Herbert. “It is the road agents. Quick, or we shall be too late!”
Jack had seen. He had not only seen, but he had already acted. Quick as thought he raised his weapon, and covered Brown. There was a sharp report, and the burly ruffian fell, his heart pierced by the unerring bullet.
Herbert dashed forward, and, seizing the rope, released his friend.
“Thank Heaven, Herbert! You have saved my life!” murmured Melville, in tones of heartfelt gratitude.
“There's another of them!” exclaimed Jack Holden, looking up into the tree, and he raised his gun once more.
“Don't shoot!” exclaimed the man, whom we know best as Col. Warner; “I'll come down.”
So he did, but not in the manner he expected. In his flurry, for he was not a brave man, outlaw though he was, he lost his hold and fell at the feet of Holden.