"Hit's a right smart piece ter ol' Josh's shack an' th' kid done come
in a whoop," returned the other, following his companion's example.
"He can't make much time down that branch on hoss back an' with them
fine clothes of his, but he orten ter be fur off."
"D'ye reckon he's a durned revenoo sure, Jake?"
"Dunno, best be safe," with an ugly scowl. "Simpson 'lows he's jes'
layin' low hisself, but ye can't tell."
"What'd Sim say his name war?"
"Jim Whitley," returned the other, taking a long careful look up the
valley.
"An' whar' from?"
"Sim say St. Louie, or some place like that. Sh--thar' he comes."
They half rose and crouching behind the log, pushed the cocked rifles
through the leaves of a little bush, covering the horseman below.
"If he's a revenoo he'll sure see th' path ter th' still," whispered
the one called Jake; "an' if he turns ter foller hit into th' cut drap
him. If he goes on down th' branch, all right."
All unconscious of the rifles that wanted only the touch of an outlaw's
finger to speak his death, the stranger pushed on his way past the
unseen danger point toward the end of the valley where lay the road.
The lean mountaineers looked at each other. "Never seed hit," said
one, showing his yellow teeth in a mirthless grin; "an' I done tole
Cap las' night, hit was es plain es er main traveled road an' orter
be kivered."
"Mebbe so," replied the other; "an' then agin he mighter ketched on
an' 'lows ter fool us.
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