Arch Brookhouse, waiting at the avenue gate, has not seen the red rocket. The tall poplars that overshadow him have shut the shooting fiery ribbon from his vision; besides, he has been looking down the hill. Neither has he seen the form that is creeping stealthily toward him from behind the tree that guards the gate.
Those within the barn have not seen the rocket, of course; and presently they come forth and harness the six horses to two huge wagons that stand in readiness. Four horses to one wagon, two to the other. The wheels are well oiled, and the wagons make no unnecessary rumbling as they go down the dark poplar avenue.
At the gate the foremost wagon halts, just long enough to enable the driver to catch the low-spoken word that tells him it is safe to proceed.
"All right," Arch Brookhouse says, softly, and the two wagons pass out and down the hill, straight through the village of Trafton.
At the foot of the hill, where the four roads cross, the drivers peer through the darkness. Yes, their sentinel is there. The white handkerchief which he holds in his hand, as a sign that all is safe, gleams through the dark, and they drive on merrily, and if the sound of their wheels wakens any sleeper in Trafton, what then? It is not unusual to hear coal wagons passing on their way to the mines.
Should they meet a belated traveler, no matter. He may hear the rumble of the wheels, and welcome, so long as the darkness prevents him from seeing the horses that draw those innocent vehicles of traffic.
Meanwhile, his duty being done, Arch Brookhouse heaves a sigh of relief, gathers up his reins, and chirrups to his horse.
But the animal does not obey him. Arch leans forward; is there something standing by the horse's head? He gives an impatient word of command, and then,—yes, there is some one there.
Arch utters a sharp exclamation, and his hand goes behind him, only to be grasped by an enemy in the rear, who follows up his advantage by seizing the other elbow and saying: