Then he remembered, and it came over him with a sickening feeling that his life was worth very little, indeed. For the black-haired man who had once before tried to kill him and who now had him prisoner could be none other than the terrible John Murrell himself. There were two other horses, one behind them and one ahead. Occasionally one of the riders would speak in a guarded voice, but for the most part they rode hard and in silence. It might have been only half an hour that they traveled, after Tad regained consciousness. If so, it was the longest thirty minutes he had ever spent in his life. At last, when it seemed as if he must cry out with pain if he were jolted any farther, his captor pulled the big horse, lathered and champing, to a stop. Without ceremony he caught Tad by his shoulder and dropped him in a heap on the ground. The boy was helpless, his ankles and his wrists bound tightly. But his brain was still working, and after the first moment of relief he began looking around, to see, if possible, where he was. Dense brush and tall trees flanked the narrow, grassy track on both sides, and there was no view that would show him how far they had come from the river. The riders had stopped in front of a house that stood at the left of the road--a high, bleak frame building, with no trees in front to soften its harsh outline. The shutterless windows leered down like evil eyes on the unkempt, desolate dooryard. An unnatural silence hung about the premises. There was no singing of birds, and in the flat gray light of a cloudy noonday, the whole atmosphere of the place seemed lonely and sinister beyond compare. The riders dismounted and talked together for a moment. “Here,” said the tall leader at length, “we can settle all that presently. You ride back down the road, Sam, and you, Bull, keep watch up the other way till I get him out of sight.” Tad heard the names with a shudder. He had guessed right, then. Bull Whaley and Sam Jukes were the chief lieutenants of the famous outlaw. He had heard of them and their cruelty from the keel-boat hands on the river. Murrell stood looking down at him for a moment, an ironical smile twisting his pale face. “I see you recall our havin’ met before, suh,” he said with his polite Southern drawl. “That’s as it should be, fo’ you are goin’ to be my guest fo’ a while. We’ll see, now, if there are any quarters ready to receive you.” He put two fingers between his lips and gave a singularly piercing whistle, so shrill that it hurt Tad’s eardrums. In a few seconds the house door opened, and a gigantic negro, in the rough clothes of a field hand, ran down the steps.