He sees a compartment that, owing to the arrangement of the hay against the rear wall, is in the very heart of the barn, shut from the gaze of curious eyes. On either side is a division, which our spy knows to contain a store of grain piled high, and acting as a complete non-conductor of sound. In front is a small room hung about with harness, and opening into a carriage room. The place is completely hidden from the ordinary gaze, and only a very inquiring mind would have fathomed its secret.
The spy, who is peering in from his vantage ground among the hay, has fathomed the secret. And he now sees within six horses—two bay Morgans, two roans, and two sorrels.
The three men are there, too, busily harnessing the six horses. They are working rapidly and silently.
The watcher lingers just long enough to see that the harness looks new and that it is of the sort generally used for draft horses, and then he executes a retreat, more difficult than his entrance, inasmuch as he can not turn in his hay tunnel, but must withdraw by a series of retrograde movements more laborious than graceful.
A moment more, and from among the poplars and evergreens a light goes shooting up, high and bright against the sky; a long, red ribbon of fire, that says to those who can read the sign,
"The Trafton horse-thieves are about to move with their long-concealed prey. Meacham's matched sorrels, Hopper's two-forty's, and the bay Morgans stolen from 'Squire Brookhouse."
It was seen, this fiery rocket, by the little band waiting by the roadside more than a mile away.
"There it is!" exclaims young Warren, who is the leader of this party—"It is the red rocket. They are going with the wagons; it's all right, boys, we can't ride too fast now."