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"Then Ned Ferry doesn't drink?"

"Good-bye." I could barely hear it.

At the edge of the wood, where we had parted, I tied my horse, and crept along the moonlight shadows of the melon-patch to the stable. The door was ajar. In the interior gloom I passed my hands over the necks and heads of what I recognized to be the pair of small mules I had seen at Gallatin. Near a third stall were pegs for saddle and bridle, but they were empty. So was the stall; the mare was gone.

"But if she--oh, yes!--Yes, to be sure; she could easily have got here yesterday afternoon."

"No, it ain't too stinkin' polite."

"South?" asked our leader.

I could not speak, I shook my head, and for evidence in rebuttal I showed in my eyes two fountains of standing tears.

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