“But Arnold is not there,” protested the German. “He went for a rabbit, out on the breaking. He so told me.”
“He lied to you. He’s mad. I tell you they’re too late,” repeated the smith, obstinately.
Hans clung tenaciously to the collar.
“Some one knew and told them?” He pointed in the direction the dust indicated.
“Yes, Bud Evans; but they wouldn’t believe him at first, and”––bitterly––“and waited.” Donovan shook himself free, and started down the walk. “I’m going to bed,” he announced conclusively.
Meanwhile the cloud of dust was moving out over the prairie like the wind. The pace was terrific, and the tough little ponies were soon puffing steadily. Small game, roused from its sleep by the roadside, sprang winging into the night. Once a coyote, surprised, ran a distance confusedly ahead in the roadway; then, an indistinct black ball, it vanished amongst the tall grass. 231
Well out on the prairie, Bud Evans, the leader, raised in his stirrups and looked ahead. There was no light beyond where the little cottage should be. The rowels of his spur dug anew at the flank of his pony as he turned a voice like a fog-horn back over his shoulder.
“The place is dark, boys,” he called. “Hurry.”
Answering, a muttering sound, not unlike an approaching storm, passed along the line, and in accompaniment the quirts cut the air anew.
Silent as the grave was the little farmstead when, forty odd minutes from the time of starting, they steamed up at the high fence bounding the yard. One of Ichabod’s farm horses whinnied a lone greeting from the barn as they hastily dismounted and swarmed within the inclosure.