“Someone coming,” he said, in a deep, hoarse voice.
The second man beat his horse’s flanks with his heels, and drew abreast.
“I can’t see,” he replied, shading his eyes from the light of the moon, which, at that moment, shone out from behind a cloud.
The other pointed beyond the culvert.
“There. Riding like hell. Gee! Look—it’s—trouble.”
Bill Bryant now discerned the hazy outline of a moving figure. It seemed to him that whoever, or whatever it was, it was aware of their approach and desirous of avoiding them. The moving object had suddenly left the trail. It had taken to the grass, and was heading straight for the miry slough.
“The fool. The madman,” muttered Charlie. “Does he know what he’s making for?”
“Is it—a stream, Charlie?”
Bill’s question seemed to irritate his brother.
“Stream?—Damn it, it’s mire. His horse’ll throw himself. Who——?”