When Washburn had gone into the stable, Westerfelt looked towards Harriet. She had walked only a few yards down the street and stood under the trees. He stepped out into the moonlight and signalled her to go on, but she refused to move. He heard Washburn swearing inside the stable, and asked what the matter was.
"I've got the bridles all tangled to hell," he answered.
"Hurry; anything will do!"
The Whitecaps had left the mountain-side and were now in sight on the level road. A minute more and Westerfelt would be a captive. He might get across the street unnoticed and hide himself in the blacksmith's shop, but they would be sure to look for him there. If he tried to go through the fields they would see him and shoot him down like a rabbit.
"Heer you are; which door, back or front?" cried Washburn.
"Front, quick! I've got to run for it! I'm a good mind to stand and make a fight of it."
"Oh no; hell, no! Mr. Westerfelt."
Washburn slid the big door open and kicked the horse in the stomach as he led him out.
"Git up, quick! They are at the branch. Blast it, they heerd the door—they've broke into a gallop!"
As Westerfelt put his foot into the stirrup he saw Harriet Floyd glide out of sight into the blacksmith's shop. She had determined not to desert him. As he sprang up, the girth snapped, and the saddle and blanket fell under his feet.