He was handsome
and dark and strong, with a scarlet kerchief knotted at his throat; and he
rode slowly, cautiously, looking furtively about and ahead of him. He was
doubly armed, and his pistols gleamed in the moonlight, while an ugly
knife nestled keenly in a secret sheath.
He was wicked, for the look upon his face was not good to see; and he was
a coward, for he started at the flutter of a night-bird hurrying late to
its home in a rock by the wayside. The mist rising from the valley in
wreaths of silver gauze startled him again as he rounded the trail to the
cabin, and for an instant he stopped and drew his dagger, thinking the
ghost he feared was walking thus early. A draught from the bottle he
carried in his pocket steadied his nerves, and he went on, but stopped
again in front of the cabin; for there stood another horse, and there in
the doorway stood a figure in the darkness! His curses rang through the
still air and smote the moonlight. His pistol flashed forth a volley of
fire to second him.
In answer to his demand who was there came another torrent of profanity.
It was one of his comrades of the day before. He explained that he and two
others had come up to pay a visit to the pretty girl. They had had a wager
as to who could win her, and they had come to try; but she was not here.
The door was fastened. They had forced it. There was no sign of her about.
The other two had gone down to the place where her brother was buried to
see whether she was there.
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