with
stubble beard. His coat and trousers fluttered rags and his toes stuck
out of his boots. Women snatched back their skirts as he slouched near,
and men muttered and scowled at him for a contaminating beast.

Merryfield and Smith, drifting near this scum of the earth, caught the
words "Four-thirty train" and the name of a station.

"Right," murmured Merryfield.

Then he went and bought tickets.

In the shelter of an ancient, grimy day-coach, the scum muttered again,
as Smith brushed past him in the aisle.

"Charlie Stover's farm," said he.

"M'm," said Smith.

At a scrap of a station, in the foothills of ascending heights the tramp
and the Troopers separately detrained. In the early evening all three
strayed together once more in the shadow of the lilacs by Charlie
Stover's gate.

Over the supper-table Hallisey gave the news. "Drake is somewhere on the
mountain to-night," said he. "His cabin is way up high, on a ridge
called Huckleberry Patch. He is practically sure to go home in the
course of the evening. Then is our chance. First, of course, you fellows
will change your clothes. I've got some old things ready for you."

Farmer Stover, like every other denizen of the rural county, had lived
for years in terror and hatred of Israel Drake. Willingly he had aided
Hallisey to the full extent of his power. He had told all that he knew
of the bandit's habits and mates. He had indicated the mountain trails
and he had given the Trooper such little shelter and food as the latter
had stopped to take during his rapid work of investigation. But now he
was asked to perform a service that he would gladly have refused; he was
asked to hitch up a horse and wagon and to drive the three Troopers to
the very vicinity of Israel Drake's house.

"Oh, come on, Mr. Stover," they urged. "You're a public-spirited man, as
you've shown. Do it for your neighbors' sake if not for your own. You
want the county rid of this pest."

Very reluctantly the farmer began the trip. With every turn of the
ever-mounting forest road his reluctance grew. Grisly memories, grisly
pictures, flooded his mind. It was night, and the trees in the darkness
whispered like evil men. The bushes huddled like crouching figures. And
what was it, moving stealthily over there, that crackled twigs? At last
he could bear it no more.

"Here's where _I_ turn 'round," he muttered hoarsely. "If you fellers
are going farther you'll go alone. I got a use for _my_ life