The seven men file silently out from the roadside and gallop away southward.
At the four corners, not far from the house on the hill, where, a short time before, a single individual had stationed himself, as a sentinel in the darkness, this signal rocket was also seen, and the watcher uttered an exclamation under his breath, and started out from underneath the tree that had sheltered him.
He could never remember how it happened, but his next sensation was that of being borne to the ground, clutched with a tiger-like grip, crushed by a heavy weight.
And then a voice, a voice that he had not heard for years, hissed above him,
"Lie still, Joe Blaikie! I've waited for this opportunity for eight long years, and it won't be worth your while to trifle with Harvey James now."
And something cold and hard is pressed against the temple of the fallen sentinel, who does not need the evidence of the accompanying ominous click to convince him that it is a revolver in the hand of his deadliest foe.
"You did not use to be a horse-thief, Joe," continues the voice, and the speaker's words are emphasized by the pressure of a knee upon his chest, and the weapon at his forehead. "They could not trust you to do the fine business, it seems, and so you are picketed here to give the alarm if anything stirs up or down the road. If it's all right, you are to remain silent. If anything occurs to alarm you, you are to give the signal. Now, listen; you are to get up and stand from under this tree. I shall stand directly behind you with my revolver at your head, and I shall not loosen my grip upon your collar. When your friends pass this way, you had better remain silent, Joe Blaikie."