“Where are they?”
He whispered this question in a voice thick with stern purpose, and shuddering with some recollection that inspired the purpose.
“They! who?”
“The two murderers.”
“They stayed behind at Bridger.”
“No. The Mormons told me they were here. Don’t hide them! Their time is come.”
Still in the same curdling whisper. He crushed his voice, as if he feared the very hillocks of the prairie would reverberate his words, and earth would utter a warning cry to those he hunted to fly, fly, for the avenger of blood was at hand.
No need to be told whom he sought. The two gamblers—the two murderers—the brutes we had suspected; but where were they? Where to be sought?
We hailed the mail train. It was but a hundred yards before us over the ridge. Jake Shamberlain and his party returned to learn what delayed us.
The haggard horsemen stared at them all, in silence.