The Night Riders. Henry Cleveland Wood
Bixler met and came to a halt in the middle of the road, almost in front of that portion of the stone wall behind which the girl had taken refuge.
After the exchange of a brief greeting, the Squire said, abruptly:
"Well, what progress have you made? Any?"
"Well, Squire, I think he's goin' to jine," answered the horseman, in the peculiar drawling tones suggestive of the hill country, whose boundary lay purple and hazy along the distant horizon.
"You think he is?" cried the Squire impatiently, with a ripping oath. "What do you know about it?"
"That when I see him again he is to tell me if he's made up his mind to come to the next meetin' place. If he does, of course, he'll jine the band."
"And what does the band propose doing?" asked the Squire.
"To git free roads."
"How?"
"Not by waitin' on the courts; the people have tried that long enough. They're goin' to take things into their own hands a bit. They mean business."
"Yes, and damn 'em, they'll find that others mean business, too!" retorted the Squire, impetuously. "However, keep your eyes and ears open, and you'll soon hear the jingle of money in your pockets."
"I'll try to keep you posted, but it's risky business for me."
"You're all safe," insisted the Squire, "and you're sure of good pay. I'd like to get the young rascal in the clutches of the law," added the speaker, with sudden vindictiveness, "and if ever I do, I'll promise to make it hot for him."
"You can trap him before a great while, I think, or at least get him in so tight a place that it will be safer for him to leave this part of the country."
"Well, if I can't run him to ground, I'd at least like to run him away," admitted the Squire, frankly.
"It's your best chance for winnin' the gal," said the horseman, with a meaning laugh.
"You keep an eye on his movements, and I'll attend to winning the girl," answered the other with a touch of resentment manifest in his tone. "Did you meet anybody between here and town?"
"No. Was you expectin' to overtake some one?" questioned the horseman.
"Well, nobody in particular," answered the Squire, evasively. "I was just thinking that there wasn't much travel over the road this morning."
"Not as much as there will be when there's no toll to pay," said the other, with a meaning laugh, as he rode away.
The girl, crouching amid the tall weeds, waited until the rattling vehicle was well over the intervening hill before she ventured from her hiding place. When she gained the road once more her face wore a grave and thoughtful look.
It was evident that mischief was brewing in this quarter for somebody. Who was it the Squire was so eager to get into the clutches of the law, and what band was this person about to join? It seemed to be some secret and illegal organization. No names had been called, yet a sudden subtle intuition warned Sally that she was, in point of fact, one of the interested parties to the conversation just overheard, and that the other person who had gained the Squire's avowed enmity, and for whose speedy undoing he was even now planning, was none other than his own nephew and her sweetheart—Milton Derr.
CHAPTER III.
When the pretty toll-taker reached town she disposed of her basket of eggs at even a higher price than Foster Crain, the poultry vendor, had quoted—she was a famous hand at bargaining and a shrewd trader—then set about making some purchases.
She saw the Squire's horse and buggy standing at a hitching post near the courthouse, and determined that she would wait until the vehicle had disappeared before she started back home. Therefore she dallied over her shopping in a truly feminine way, and dropped in to have a friendly chat with an acquaintance or two; then, noting the horse and buggy had gone, she finally started homeward.
The day was now hastening toward noon, the sun had grown oppressive, and, with several bundles to carry, Sally felt that the return would not be so pleasant as the coming had been. She looked about her, hoping to find some one—that is, some one besides the Squire—who might be going in the direction of the new pike gate, and with a seat to offer, but no one seemed to be in town from her neighborhood on this morning, and so she set out alone.
Just as Sally reached the edge of the town, where two streets intersected, who should drive up the other street but the Squire? The meeting was wholly an accidental one, but after her persistent efforts to avoid him all the morning, the encounter seemed like the especial workings of a perverse fate. The Squire was close upon her before she even saw him. There was no chance for escape or subterfuge.
"Ah, Miss Sally! Good morning to you!" he cried, with one of his amatory ogles that always sent a cold chill over her and strongly aroused within her bosom a spirit of determined opposition. "I have been looking for you all the morning. Where have you been hiding yourself?" he asked, as he drove up to where she had reluctantly stopped on hearing her name called.
"Behind the stone wall," Sally was half tempted to answer, wishing, at the moment, that she could have availed herself of its protection in the present instance; but she only nodded gravely and said that she had been making a few purchases for her mother.
"I tried to overtake you early this morning," continued the Squire, glibly. "Your mother said you had been gone but a little while when I passed the gate. You must have walked pretty fast."
"I did," acknowledged Sally, with a covert smile. "It was cool and pleasant walking."
"Well, come! Put your bundles down in front and jump in," said her companion. "Riding's better than walking any day, and good company's better than either," he added, with a tender leer at her, which Sally pretended not to see.
There was nothing for it but to accept the proffered seat. She did not dare openly to offend the Squire by a refusal to ride with him, though she would willingly have chosen the long, warm walk, even with the additional burden of her bundles, in preference to his company. As her mother had said only that morning, it was through his influence that she had been appointed keeper of the New Pike Gate, and it was due to him she now kept it, so Sally civilly thanked him and got into the buggy.
"If I had counted on such good company, I would have had this old rattletrap cleaned up a bit," said the Squire, apologetically, as they drove off. "But, never mind!" he added, jocosely. "When we start out on our wedding trip, I'll buy a brand-new, shiny rig, out an' out."
"We?" echoed Sally, with a certain sharpness of tone.
"You don't suppose I'd care to go on a bridal trip alone, do you?" inquired the Squire, laconically, and with a wink of one watery eye.
"I'm afraid you will, if you depend on me to go along with you," answered Sally, dryly.
"Now, my dear, you surely wouldn't be that cruel?" said the Squire, edging a little closer to Sally, who as promptly moved away. "Haven't I been depending on your going all the while, and haven't I said that I wouldn't have any other girl but you, though there's plenty would be only too glad to go for the asking?"
"An' there's one that wouldn't," announced Sally, coolly.
"Then I can show her where she stands mightily in her own light," said the Squire, suddenly dropping into a more serious tone.
"How so?"
"By giving her some very good reasons why she should act differently."
"What