A STARTLING SUMMONS
The stage was within a hundred yards of Black Bear Swamp when
something like a tornado struck it. The horses stopped, and the
vehicle was partly lifted from the ground. For an instant it seemed to
be going over. The driver and the New Englander started with
suppressed exclamations, while Wagstaff emitted a cry of alarm, as he
and his companion attempted to leap out.
“Sit still! you’re all right!” shouted Lenman, striking his horses
with the whip. They broke into a trot, and a few minutes later entered
the dense wood, where they were safe from the danger that threatened
them a moment before. Indeed, the volley of wind was as brief as a
discharge of musketry, passing instantly, though it still howled
through the wood, with a dismal effect, which made all heartily wish
they were somewhere else.
It was so dark that, but for the flashes of lightning, the passengers
would have been unable to see each other’s forms; but the horses were
so familiar with the route that they needed no guidance. The driver
allowed them to walk, while he held the lines taut to check them on
the instant it might be necessary.
Wagstaff and McGovern climbed forward, and crowded themselves on the
seat beside the New Englander, each firmly grasping his rifle, for, as
they advanced into the wood, their thoughts were of the criminal who
they believed would challenge them before they could reach the other
side.
Still the rain held off, though the lightning was almost incessant and
continually showed the way in front. The wind, too, abated, and all
began to breathe more freely.
“I guess the robber won’t dare show himself to-night,” said Wagstaff,
speaking rather his wish than his belief.
“What’s to hinder him?” asked Ethan Durrell.
“The storm.”
The driver laughed outright.
“It’s just what is in his favor—hulloa!”
“Gracious! what’s the matter?” gasped Wagstaff, as the team suddenly
halted, of their own accord; “let’s get out.”
“Something’s wrong,” replied Lenman; “don’t speak or make any noise;
we’ll soon know what it is.”
While waiting for the flash of lightning to illuminate the gloom, it
never seemed so long coming. A short time before the gleams were
continuous, but now the gloom was like that of Egypt as the seconds
dragged along.
No one spoke, but all eyes were fixed on the impenetrable darkness in
front, while every ear was strained to catch some sound beside the
soughing of the wind among the trees.
All at once, as if the overwhelming storehouse of electricity could
contain itself no longer, the whole space around, in front and above
was lit up by one dazzling flame, which revealed everything with the
vividness of a thousand noonday suns.
By its overpowering glare the figure of a man on horseback was seen
motionless in the middle of the road, less than twenty feet distant.
He knew of the presence of some one in his path, and he, too, was
awaiting the help of the lightning before advancing.
“That’s _him_,’” whispered Tom Wagstaff; “shall we shoot?”
Ethan Durrell felt the seat tremble under the youth, while the others
noticed the quaver in his voice.
“No,” replied the driver; “he hasn’t done nothin’ yet; wait till he
hails us.”
“That may be too late, but all right.”
“Helloa, Bill, is that you?” came from the horseman.
“Yes; who are you?” called back the driver.
“Don’t you know me, Hank Babcock?” called the other, with a laugh.
“I sort of thought it was you, Hank, but wasn’t sure.”
“You can be sure of it now; wait a minute till I get out of your way;
I’ll turn aside and let you pass.”
Everything was quiet for a moment, except the wind, the snuffing of
his horse, and the sound of his hoofs, as he was forced with some
trouble close to the trees which grew near the highway.
“Now, it’s all right; go ahead,” called Hank Babcock.
Lenman spoke to his animals and they moved forward. When opposite the
horseman, another flash revealed him sitting astride the animal, a few
feet to one side. He called a cheery good-night as he drew back, after
the stage had passed, and continued his course.
“Driver,” said Wagstaff, when they were moving again; “where is the
spot you thought it likely we would meet him?”
“We’re close to it now; you notice the road goes down a little, but
not enough for me to put on the brake; have your shootin’ irons ready,
for, somehow or other, I feel in my bones that you’ll need ’em.”
“Where’s that chap that was here a minute ago?” asked Jim, with as
much tremor in his voice as his friend.
“Who’s that?” asked the driver.
“That Yankee that was sitting right here; he’s gone!”
“I guess not,” replied the driver, reaching back his hand and groping
vaguely around; “he must be there.”
“He isn’t; he was here, but he’s missing.”
“Maybe he got so scared he took the back seat,” suggested Tom, who
held his rifle in his left hand, while he passed his right through the
vacancy in the rear of the stage; “no, I’ll be hanged if he is there;
he isn’t in the stage.”
“That’s mighty queer,” remarked the driver; “I didn’t hear him get
out, did you?”
“No, but I felt him; he was sitting right alongside of us, when
something brushed past me and he was gone—there!”
Once more the lightning brought everything out with intense
distinctness, and all saw that there were only three instead of four
persons in the stage.
The New Englander was missing: what had become of him?
“I guess he was scared,” suggested Wagstaff, with a weak attempt to
screw up his courage; “and preferred to hide among the trees rather
than run the risk of meeting that stranger—”
“_Sh!_” interrupted the driver, “there’s somebody ahead of us in
the road; the horses see him; be ready and remember that if you miss
it’s sure death—”
At that moment the most startling cry that could fall upon their ears
rang from the gloom in front:
“_Hands up, every one of you!_”