For Jesse had not ridden to Monegaw Springs with Clell Miller and his brother, Frank, in the garb of woolen shirts, "chaps," high boots, black slouch hats, with knives and guns bristling from their belts, in which alone the public fancy seemed able to picture them, but clad in the height of the fashion of the day. Guns they had--and cartridges and knives--but so cleverly were they carried in their pockets that the presence of the death-dealing weapons would escape even the most suspicious eye. Reining in their mettlesome thoroughbreds, the outlaws dismounted in front of one of the stores and passed inside to purchase tents and such other things as they might need. Those who had seen them eagerly asked who the new arrivals were, attracted by their confident bearing and well put-up figures. But none could answer and when they reappeared from the store, they were followed by a curious coterie of idlers who watched them select a place and pitch their tents, at the extreme southwestern corner of the grove that had been set apart for the campers. This very necessary work completed, the bandits had remounted and were riding through the camp on a tour of reconnaissance to learn if any of their enemies, the detectives and sheriffs, were among the sojourners at the Springs when they were startled by a frenzied cry of warning that swelled to a hoarse roar as throat after throat took it up. Turning in their saddles as they heard the inarticulate shouts, the three desperadoes dropped their hands to the pockets in which they carried their shooting-irons. With hundreds of man-hunters on their trail, whenever a hue and cry was raised, the outlaws naturally believed themselves to be the cause. "It may be Cole and Texas in from Chouteau with a pack of devils at their heels," exclaimed Clell in a low voice. But the next instant their apprehension was banished. With frantic haste, the throng that had raised the alarm parted, shoving and pushing those behind them in their effort to break through to places of safety. And tearing along the lane thus opened, the outlaws beheld a runaway horse, nostrils distended, eyes wild, ears laid back, a young girl clinging with the desperation of terror to its mane. Maddened by the shouts of the people, the animal leaped from side to side of its narrow path. "Pull your foot out of the stirrup and slide off!" cried a score of voices. And as the silence of fear fell over the throng, the terrified voice of the girl responded: "I can't! It's caught!" With a gasp of horror, the crowd heard. Several men leaped for the bridle, but the infuriated horse dodged them or shook them off. Straight for the gate of a corral, less than two hundred yards away, was the animal rushing. The opening had been cut in a solid wall and the lintel was so low that it would barely clear the saddle pommel. If the horse were not stopped, it would dash inside.