“I guess that’ll about fix you, Mr. David Linton!” he muttered.
There was a hole in the hawthorn hedge near him. He pushed his swag through and crawled after it. No one was in sight. He cast a hurried look round. Then he rose and almost ran from the spot—from the rusty kerosene tin and the little yellow flame. The twilight shrouded him—a mean figure, slinking in the shadow of the hedge.
CHAPTER X
MIDNIGHT
When the north wind moans thro’ the blind creek courses,
And revels with harsh, hot sand,
I loose the horses, the wild red horses,
I loose the horses, the mad red horses,
And terror is on the land!
—Marie E. J. Pitt.