The three disappeared into the mist, and Armitage and Claiborne shook themselves together and quieted their horses.
“That was too close for fun—are you all there?” asked Armitage.
“Still in it; but Chauvenet’s friend won’t miss every time. There’s murder in his eye. The big fellow seemed to be trying to shoot his own horse.”
“Oh, he’s a knife and sack man and clumsy with the gun.”
They moved slowly forward now and Armitage sent his horse across the rough ditch at the roadside to get his bearings. The fog seemed at the point of breaking, and the mass about them shifted and drifted in the growing light.
“This is my land, sure enough. Lord, man, I wish you’d get out of this and go home. You see they’re an ugly lot and don’t use toy pistols.”
“Remember the potato sack! That’s my watchword,” laughed Claiborne.
They rode with their eyes straight ahead, peering through the breaking, floating mist. It was now so clear and light that they could see the wood at either hand, though fifty yards ahead in every direction the fog still lay like a barricade.
“I should value a change of raiment,” observed Armitage. “There was an advantage in armor—your duds might get rusty on a damp excursion, but your shirt wouldn’t stick to your hide.”
“Who cares? Those devils are pretty quiet, and the little sergeant is about due to bump into them again.”