The horses pricked up their ears, as though they knew the doomed place well, and the leaders gave a snort as they beheld a form ahead. It was a man leaning against the cross erected in memory of Bud Benton.
That Harding also saw the form was certain, for his eyes were riveted upon the spot. As he drew nearer, the man moved away from the cross and advanced down into the trail.
Still Harding made no move to halt, to rush by, or appeared to take notice of him. The man placed himself by the side of the trail, and stood as still as a statue, after making a slight sign, as it appeared.
The answer of Harding to this sign was to shake his head.
On rolled the coach, and when it neared the silent form, without any command to do so, Harding drew hard upon the reins, pressed his foot heavily upon the brake, and brought the coach to a standstill, the horses, which had before drawn it through the deadly dangers it had passed at that spot, showing a restless dread and expectancy of the cracking of revolvers.
But there was no weapon drawn either by the man on the side of the trail, or by Harding, and neither seemed to dread the other.
The reason for this was that the one who had awaited the coming of the coach at the Dead Line was none other than old Huckleberry.