"Here, thar, you jail-bird, yore wanted!" cried out the leader. "Stop
that infernal racket!"
"What is it?" asked Wambush, riding back among his fellows.
"Toot Wambush!" Harriet repeated.
He looked up at her. "What do you want?" he asked, doggedly, after
gazing up at her steadily for a moment.
"Get away as fast as you can," she replied. "His wound has broke
again. He's bleeding to death!"
"Well, that's certainly good news!" Wambush did not move.
"You'd better go," she urged. "It will be wilful murder. You made the
attack. He was unarmed, and you used a pistol and a knife. Do you
want to be hung?"
He sat on his horse silent and motionless, his face upraised in the
full moonlight. There was no sound except the champing of bits, the
creaking of saddles.
"Come on, Toot," urged the leader in a low tone. "You've settled yore
man's hash; what more do you want? We've got you out o' jail, now let
us put you whar you'll be safe from the law."
Wambush had not taken his eyes from the girl. He now spoke as if his
words were meant for her only.
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