The horse-thief
stepped between the dangling cleats and vanished. The judge,
armed with the stool, stood at bay.
"What next?" a voice asked.
"Get dry brush--these are green logs--we'll burn this jail!"
"Hold on!" the judge recognized the horse-thief as the speaker.
"There's an old party in there! No need to singe him!"
"Friend?"
"No, I tried him."
The judge tossed away the stool. He understood now that these
men were neither lynchers nor regulators. With a confident, not
to say jaunty step, he emerged from the jail.
"Your servant, gentlemen!" he said, lifting his hat.
"Git!" said one of the men briefly, and the judge moved nimbly
away toward the woods. He had gained its shelter when the jail
began to glow redly.
Now to find Solomon and the boy, and then to put the miles
between himself and Pleasantville with all diligence. As he
thought this, almost at his elbow Mahaffy and Hannibal rose from
behind a fallen log. The Yankee motioned for silence and pointed
west.
"Yes," breathed the judge. He noted that Mahaffy had a heavy
pack, and the boy his long rifle. For a mile or two they moved
forward without speech, the boy in the lead; while at his heels
strode Mahaffy, with the judge bringing up the rear.
"How do you feel, Price?" asked Mahaffy at length, over his
shoulder.
"Like one come into a fortune! Those horse-thieves gave me a
fine scare, but did me a good turn."
Hannibal kept to the woods by a kind of instinct, and the two men
yielded themselves to his guidance; but there was no speech
between them.
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