“Keep on poling and save your wind!” commanded Hadley, threateningly, still with the pistol at Lon’s side.
But the old gentleman’s wrath rose, and, believing that it was not his son aboard the boat, he brought his old-fashioned squirrel rifle to his shoulder. “Stop where you be!” he called, threateningly. “I ain’t goin’ to let you scalawags run off with my property—not by a jugful! Come back here with that boat or I’ll see if a charge of shot’ll reach ye!”
“Don’t shoot, dad!” yelled Lon, in deadly fear of the old man’s gun. “You’ll like enough shoot me instead of him. I can’t help it. He’s got a pistol an’—”
“Who is it?” cried the elder Alwood. “Where’s Sam?”
“It’s Had Morris. He’s makin’ Sam and me take him across the river.”
“Is that his horse I see there?” demanded the wrathful farmer.
“Yes, dad. Shoot it!” shouted Lon.
“Don’t you do it, Mr. Alwood,” warned the dispatch bearer. “I’ve got my pistol right against your son’s ribs, and when you fire your gun I shall pull the trigger.”
“Don’t, dad!” yelled Lon. “Don’t shoot the horse.”
Hadley nearly choked over his captive’s sudden change of heart, and even black Sam chuckled as he bent his body against the pole at the other side of the boat. They were now well out from the shore and the water was deepening. Suddenly, above the loudly expressed indignation of Farmer Alwood, sounded the clash of accoutrements and the ring of hoofs. A cavalcade was coming along the edge of the river from the direction of the regular ferry.