There was a sudden, confused trampling, as of cattle in stampede; a musical creaking of heavy saddles; a knife-like swish of many quirts through the air; a chorus of dull, chesty groans as the rowels of long spurs bit the flanks of the mustangs, and they were gone--down the narrow street, out upon the prairie, their hoof beats pattering _diminuendo_ into silence; a cloud of dust, grayish in the starlight, marking the way they had taken. Jim Donovan, the blacksmith, came running excitedly up from a side street. He stopped in front of the hotel, breathlessly. Holding his sides, he followed with his eyes the trail of dust leading out into the night. "Have they gone?" he panted. "I can't find another horse in town." "Where is it to?" sputtered the German. "Have they gone, I say?" Hans gasped. "Yes, to be sure." "They'll never make it." The blacksmith mopped his brow with conviction. "He has an hour's start." Hans grasped the big man by the coat. "Who is too late?" he emphasized. "Where are they going?" Jim Donovan turned about, great pity for such density in his eyes. "Is it possible you don't understand? It's to Ichabod Maurice's they're going, to tell him of Arnold." The speaker mopped his face anew. "It's useless though. They're too late," he completed. "But Arnold is not there," protested the German. "He went for a rabbit, out on the breaking. He so told me." "He lied to you. He's mad. I tell you they're too late," repeated the smith, obstinately. Hans clung tenaciously to the collar. "Some one knew and told them?" He pointed in the direction the dust indicated. "Yes, Bud Evans; but they wouldn't believe him at first, and"--bitterly--"and waited." Donovan shook himself free, and started down the walk. "I'm going to bed," he announced conclusively. Meanwhile the cloud of dust was moving out over the prairie like the wind. The pace was terrific, and the tough little ponies were soon puffing steadily. Small game, roused from its sleep by the roadside, sprang winging into the night. Once a coyote, surprised, ran a distance confusedly ahead in the roadway; then, an indistinct black ball, it vanished amongst the tall grass. Well out on the prairie, Bud Evans, the leader, raised in his stirrups and looked ahead. There was no light beyond where the little cottage should be. The rowels of his spur dug anew at the flank of his pony as he turned a voice like a fog-horn back over his shoulder. "The place is dark, boys," he called. "Hurry." Answering, a muttering sound, not unlike an approaching storm, passed along the line, and in accompaniment the quirts cut the air anew. Silent as the grave was the little farmstead when, forty odd minutes from the time of starting, they steamed up at the high fence bounding the yard. One of Ichabod's farm horses whinnied a lone greeting from the barn as they hastily dismounted and swarmed within the inclosure. "We're too late," prophesied a voice.