The animal, though going freely, was covered with dust and dripping with sweat, which showed a creamy lather on his flanks, and where the bridle reins touched his neck. The rider wore a blue flannel shirt, open at the throat, corduroy trousers, tucked in long boots, and a black slouch hat, with the brim turned up in front. At his belt hung two heavy revolvers, and across the saddle he held a Winchester ready for instant use. He sat his horse easily as one accustomed to much riding, but like the animal, he showed the strain of a hard race. Whitley was so wrought up that all these details impressed themselves upon his mind in an instant, and it seemed hours from the moment the horseman appeared until he was opposite the rock, though it could have been but a few seconds. The watcher caught one glimpse of the rider's face, square jawed, keen eyed, determined, alert, stained by wind and weather. "Crack!" went the rifle behind Whitley. Like a flash the weapon of the rider flew to his shoulder. "Crack!" and the bark flew from the tree within an inch of Jake's face. Whitley saw the spurs strike and the rider lean forward in his saddle to meet the spring of his horse. "Crack!" Jake's rifle spoke again. A mocking laugh came back from the road as the flying horseman passed from sight. Then, "I'll see you later," came in ringing tones, and the thud, thud, thud, of the galloping horse died away in the distance. The mountaineer delivered himself of a volley of oaths, while Whitley stood quietly looking at him, his mind filled with strange thoughts. The man who could deliberately fire from ambush with intent to kill was the man for his purpose. "Who is he?" Jim asked at last, when the other stopped swearing long enough to fill his mouth with fresh tobacco. "A revenoo, an' I done missed him clean." He began to curse again. "He came near getting you though," said the other, pointing to the mark of the horseman's bullet. "Yas, hit war' Bill Davis. Aint nary other man in the hull dad burned outfit could er done hit." He looked with admiration at the fresh scar on the tree. "But what is he doing?" asked Whitley. Jake looked at him with that ugly, mirthless grin. "Mebbe he's huntin' turkey too." Whitley laughed, "I guess he was goin' too fast for that," he said; but his companion's reply changed his laughter to fear. "Thar's them that better be a follerin' of him mighty sudden." "What do you mean?" "I mean you, Mister. The boys has had ther' eye on ye fer sometime. We know yer huntin's all a blind, an' now Bill Davis he's come in. I aint right shor' myself er I'd a kep' mum an' he'pped 'em take ye." Whitley turned pale. "Do you mean that the people here think I'm a revenue agent looking for moonshiners?" "That's about hit, Mister, an' they'll be fer takin' ye out ter night shor'."