" He stared at her an instant, then he put his revolver into his
belt.
"All right, then, to oblige you; but you must hurry home!" He hastened
across the street and rapped on the office door.
"Who's thar?" called out Washburn from his bed.
"Me--Westerfelt."
There was a sound of bare feet on the floor inside and the door opened.
"What's up?" asked Washburn, sleepily.
"I want my horse; there's a gang of Whitecaps coming down the Hawkbill,
and it looks like they are after me."
"My God!" Washburn began fumbling along the wall. "Where's the
matches? Here's one!" He scratched it and lighted his lantern. "I'll
git yore hoss. Stand heer, Mr. Westerfelt, an' ef I ain't quick enough
make a dash on foot fer that strip o' woods over thar in the field.
The fences would keep 'em from followin', an' you might dodge 'em."
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.
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