“Jesse Smith's hoss, I swear!” shouted the tall man. “Kells, come out here!”
Kells appeared, dark and eager, at the door, and nimbly he leaped to the excited group. Pearce and Wood and others followed.
“What's up?” called the bandit. “Hello! Who's that riding bareback?”
“He's shore cuttin' the wind,” said Wood.
“Blicky!” exclaimed the tall man. “Kells, there's news. I seen Jesse's hoss.”
Kells let out a strange, exultant cry. The excited talk among the men gave place, to a subdued murmur, then subsided. Blicky was running a horse up the road, hanging low over him, like an Indian. He clattered to the bench, scattered the men in all directions. The fiery horse plunged and pounded. Blicky was gray of face and wild of aspect.
“Jesse's come!” he yelled, hoarsely, at Kells. “He jest fell off his hoss—all in! He wants you—an' all the gang! He's seen a million dollars in gold-dust!”
Absolute silence ensued after that last swift and startling speech. It broke to a commingling of yells and shouts. Blicky wheeled his horse and Kells started on a run. And there was a stampede and rush after him.
Joan grasped her opportunity. She had seen all this excitement, but she had not lost sight of Cleve. He got up from a log and started after the others. Joan flew to him, grasped him, startled him with the suddenness of her onslaught. But her tongue seemed cloven to the roof of her mouth, her lips weak and mute. Twice she strove to speak.
“Meet me—there!—among the pines—right away!” she whispered, with breathless earnestness. “It's life—or death—for me!”