Suddenly he turned and pointed his outstretched hand
full at Judge Briscoe.
"An' dass de main," he cried, "dass de main kin tell you Ah speak de
trufe."
Before he was answered, Eph Watts looked at Briscoe keenly and then turned
to Lige Willetts and whispered: "Get on your horse, ride in, and ring the
court-house bell like the devil. Do as I say!"
Tears stood in the judge's eyes. "It is so," he said, solemnly. "He speaks
the truth. I didn't mean to tell it to-day, but somehow--" He paused. "The
hounds!" he cried. "They deserve it! My daughter saw them crossing the
fields in the night--saw them climb the fence, hoods, gowns, and all, a
big crowd of them. She and the lady who is visiting us saw them, saw them
plainly. The lady saw them several times, clear as day, by the flashes of
lightning--the scoundrels were coming this way. They must have been
dragging him with them then. He couldn't have had a show for his life
amongst them. Do what you like--maybe they've got him at the Cross-Roads.
If there's a chance of it--dead or alive--bring him back!"
A voice rang out above the clamor that followed the judge's speech.
"'Bring him back!' God could, maybe, but He won't. Who's travelling my
way? I go west!" Hartley Bowlder had ridden his sorrel up the embankment,
and the horse stood between the rails.
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