Chapter XIII
The gang formed a semi-circle round Westerfelt and his horse. In their
white caps and sheets they appeared ghostly and hideous, as they looked
down at him through the eye-holes of their masks. One of them held a
coil of new rope and tantalizingly swung it back and forth before his
face.
"You must go with us up the Hawkbill fer a little moonlight picnic," he
jeered. "We've picked out a tree up thar that leans spank over a cliff
five hundred feet from the bottom. Ef the rope broke, ur yore noggin
slipped through the noose, you'd never know how come you so."
"He's got to have some'n to ride," suggested another muffled voice; "we
have done his horse up."
"Well, he's got a-plenty, an' he won't need 'em atter our ja'nt,"
jested the man with the rope. "You uns back thar, that hain't doin'
nothin' but lookin' purty, go in the stable and trot out some'n fer 'im
to ride; doggoned ef I want 'im straddled behind me. His ha'nt 'ud
ride with me every time I passed over the Hawkbill."
"Bill Washburn's in thar," said a man in the edge of the crowd.
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