The grewsome cavalcade wended its way townward. Moll Hawk sat between the sheriff and Cyrus Allen on the springless board that served as a seat atop the lofty sideboards of the wagon. The crude wooden wheels rumbled and creaked and jarred along the deep-rutted road, jouncing the occupants of the vehicle from side to side with unseemly playfulness. Back in the bed of the wagon, under a gaily coloured Indian blanket, lay the outstretched body of Jasper Suggs, seemingly alive and responsive to the jolts and twists and turns of the road. The rear end gate had been removed and three men sat with their heels dangling outside, their backs to the sinister, unnoticed traveller who shared accommodations with them. The central figure was Martin Hawk, grim, saturnine, silent, his feet and hands secured with leather thongs. Trotting along under his heels, so to speak, were his three dogs,--their tongues hanging out, their tails drooping, their eyes turning neither to right nor left. They were his only friends. Some distance behind rode three horsemen, leading as many riderless steeds. On ahead was another group of riders. Rachel Carter rode alongside the wagon. Moll had firmly refused to wear the older woman's cape. She had on a coat belonging to one of the men and wore a flimsy, deep-hooded bonnet that once had been azure blue. Her shoulders sagged wearily, her back was bent, her arms lay limply upon her knees. She was staring bleakly before her over the horses' ears, at the road ahead. The reaction had come. She had told the story of the night, haltingly but with a graphic integrity that left nothing to be desired. Martin Hawk had spent a black and unhappy hour. He was obliged to listen to his daughter's story and, much to his discontent, was not permitted to contradict her in any particular. Two or three mournful attempts to reproach her for lying about her own,--and, he always added, her ONLY--father, met with increasingly violent adjurations to "shut up," the last one being so emphatic that he gave vent to a sharp howl of pain and began feeling with his tongue to see if all his teeth were there. Luckily for him, he was impervious to the scorn of his fellow-man, else he would have shrivelled under the looks he received from time to time. Especially distressing to him was that part of her recital touching upon his unholy greed; he could not help feeling, with deep parental bitterness, that no man alive ever had a more heartless, undutiful daughter than he,--a conviction that for the time being at least caused him to lament the countless opportunities he had had to beat her to death instead of merely raising a few perishable welts on her back. If he had done that, say a month ago, how different everything would be now! This part of her story may suffice: