It was about the middle of the afternoon, and Bet Crow was spinning listlessly, while her mother carded the rolls for her. They were not dreaming of any danger, when a man, coatless, hatless, covered with dust, and panting heavily, leaped the fence and ran across the yard. It was Bill Sanders.
"Mis' Crow, for the love of God let me hide in here!" he gasped hoarsely, stumbling over the doorstep, and then staggering into the room.
"Bill Sanders! what on the face o' the yeth!" cried the frightened woman, her fresh-colored face growing pale.
"They air arter me! they mean to kill me!" he panted, crouching under the loom, quivering with exhaustion, wild-eyed with fear.
"Bet, Bet! what does it mean?" exclaimed her mother appealingly.
Bet ran to the door, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked out. Four or five men were running along the road toward the house, searching and cursing fiercely. She had no idea what had happened, but she knew they were workmen from the bridge, and a desperate-looking gang they were to her frightened eyes. For a moment her heart quailed. They might murder her and her mother, as well as Bill Sanders. He was incapable of offering any defense just then, and pity filled her heart. Her eyes flashed; her lips were set in a determined line. They should not get him if she could help it.
"Quick, ma! blow the horn for pa!" she said, then sprang up on a chair and took down her father's shot-gun from over the door, a trusty weapon he loved next to his wife and daughter.
"Don't you come enny nigher till you tell what you want," she said clearly, raising the gun in her none too steady hands as they scrambled over the fence. For a moment they were nonplussed, and stared at her with a mixture of surprise and uncertainty.
"We want the man that's hid in there," said one lowering fellow, fiercely.
"What for?"