The Night Riders. Henry Cleveland Wood
brought up the rear. There was a tinge of romantic adventure about the whole affair that strongly appealed to the new candidate.
The path led down to a secluded hollow in the midst of the thicket—a remote and lonely spot, far removed from human habitation, it seemed, and little liable to intrusion—a spot well chosen for a secret midnight rendezvous.
In the midst of the copse lay a small clearing, and in its center the three men came suddenly upon a group gathered around a smouldering fire, built of brushwood piled against a log.
The uncertain blaze but dimly lighted the scene, but it was sufficient to bring into clearer view the dark forms of a body of men vaguely outlined against the darker bushes surrounding them, while the faces of the members of this secret band were partly concealed under soft slouch hats, and strips of black cloth, such as the guide wore, tied over the upper part of the face, with holes cut in the cloth for the eyes.
This partial concealment of the features gave an air of weird mystery to the secret conclave—a touch of the uncanny mingling with the strange and romantic.
A swift thought darted into Milton Derr's brain as he suddenly recalled his sweetheart's words of warning given him at meeting the Sunday before, that perhaps he had been led into a trap, of whose setting his uncle was cognizant, and that the members of this secret organization meant to do him bodily harm.
If such should be their will and purpose, he was entirely at their mercy. No friendly aid could reach him in this remote and dismal spot, where even a cry for help would die unheeded upon the still night air. Yet, as these disturbing thoughts darted through his excited brain, he stood erect and motionless, and his calm face gave no sign of inward fear. If he was called upon to yield his life it should be rendered as became a brave man, but he would endeavor to sell it as dearly as possible.
Standing in that sombre spot, the spirit of distrust bearing heavily upon him, he gave a swift, sweeping glance of inquiry around, noting the shadowy forms of the men that seemed to merge into the impenetrable darkness, while the uncertain, flickering blaze of the fire but dimly lighted the gloomy depths of foliage beyond, rising like a mysterious barrier to shut out freedom and the outer world. The grim silence of the group surrounding him still further served to deeply impress the new candidate for initiation, and to make manifest the fact that whatever of good or evil might be in store for him, it was now too late to retract the words that had helped to bring him thither.
The young man found himself vaguely hoping, as he glanced keenly from one to another of the silent brotherhood, that among these masked faces, whose fantastically concealed features were turned darkly in his direction, there might be at least some friendly and familiar ones if uncovered to the light.
At the conclusion of the initiation, made yet more impressive to the candidate because of his lively imagination, aided and fed by the remoteness of the spot and the gloom of the night, after Derr had taken the solemn oath of the order to obey its captain and preserve all secrets, the raiders began to bare their faces to the new member.
As the half-masks were raised, one by one, Milton Derr saw that several members of the band were acquaintances of his, one or two were more intimate friends, while others he knew only by sight and some were strangers.
The captain was the last to remove his mask, and as he did so the new raider recognized in him the one man, of all others dwelling amid these hills, he least desired or expected to serve under—Jade Beddow.
CHAPTER V.
"Now, boys, to business!" cried the captain, briskly, as some of Milt's acquaintances gathered around him to give him a welcoming hand. "We have a little work before us tonight."
Soon the sound of a small cavalcade, riding rapidly along the country roads, broke into the quiet of the night, perchance arousing some light sleeper as it passed, who, after listening drowsily to the retreating hoof-beats as they died away in the distance, would turn and mutter, "The Night Riders," then drift into slumber again.
"Where are we going?" asked Milt, who rode by the side of Steve.
"To make one less toll-gate."
"Which one?" asked Milt, with an interest he did not care to betray.
"It's the Cross-Roads Gate, I think. You can look for a lot o' fun tonight if it's that one, an' we get Maggie O'Flynn stirred up. She's a regular circus in herself." Steve chuckled audibly at the prospective entertainment.
"It will be something like stirring up a den of wild-cats, not counting in Pat at all," Milt admitted.
"Pat don't count; he's a coward, through and through. The fun will all be furnished by Maggie."
"And we fellows had better look sharp," cautioned Milt. "Maggie's a pretty good shot, I've heard."
"We've seen to it that she won't have a chance to draw a bead on any of us," admitted Steve. "She keeps a rifle at the gate, but one of the neighbors borrowed it this very mornin' to shoot a hawk, an' somehow forgot to carry it back. He won't think of it till in the mornin'. Maggie's tongue is all that's left to guard the gate."
"And under ordinary circumstances that's sufficient," admitted Milt.
The raiders soon came out upon a turnpike, and after a ride of a mile or two they reached a spot where the pike was intersected by another, crossed at right angles. At the juncture of the two roads stood the toll-house which had been chosen for the night's raid.
A raider was stationed about a hundred yards from the gate to guard the approach from that direction, while the rest rode forward to where the double poles were now raised at this mid-hour of the night. Three of the horsemen passed through and took positions on the farther side of the toll-house, at about equal distances from it along the two roads.
In the meantime the captain selected a man from among the members of the band, who was least known to the locality, to act as spokesman, and while the remaining raiders grouped themselves about the gate, a resounding knock was given at the toll-house door.
"All roight! I'm afther comin'. Ye needn't break the dure down," answered a sleepy man's voice, deeply tinged with Celtic brogue. "What the divil do ye want, anyway? The poles are raised!" the voice demanded immediately after.
"We want these poles cut down," announced the spokesman of the band.
"Begorra! an' it's the raiders!" Pat said in a husky voice to his awakened spouse.
"The phwat?" asked Maggie, in a shrill tone, evidently raising up in bed.
"Whist, honey! The raiders!" repeated Pat, in more cautious tones.
"An' phwat do they want?" asked Maggie, in a still higher key.
"They want the poles cut down," faltered Pat.
"Indade! An' phwat do they mane wakin' up honest people this dead o' the night, axin' the loike o' that?" demanded his wife, shrilly. "Get the gun, Pat, an' shoot the dirty thaves!"
Pat, shaking with excitement or fear, in a low, tremulous voice, inaudible to those without, reminded his spouse that the gun had been loaned out and was no longer there.
"An' bad luck to the man that borrowed it!" cried the undaunted Maggie. "It's betther used to shoot raiders with thin hawks."
"Get us an axe!" commanded the spokesman of the band, rapping sharply on the door.
"It's out at the wood pile beyant the house," answered Pat, meekly.
"Hush, you fool!" cried his wife, shrilly. "Phwat did ye tell 'em for? I'd 'a' seen the last wan o' thim to the divil first, where they'll go quick enough."
Two of the raiders went in search of the axe, and soon its dull blows were heard on the hard, seasoned wood of one of the poles, while the sound of the cutting seemed to infuriate Maggie as nothing else had done.