“Exactly. But many people believe in an underground railroad, with regular trains running on time, stopping points, and everything in railroad style?” “Really?” “You bet,” grunted Maybee, half-asleep. “Yes, sir; some men of fair intelligence, too, have faith in it. They can account for the results we accomplish in no other way. A fugitive is passed along by us, night after night, until he secures his freedom. Our methods are a profound mystery.” “Let ’m stop right thar,” returned Maybee. “You fellers’d better git to sleep.” Steward extinguished the light, placed his weapons where they could be reached instantly, and laid down by Warren. The rain still fell gently down in a patter on the roof, the little clock ticked in its place over the wooden stand. Warren could not sleep. An hour passed. There was a footstep. Warren’s ear alone caught the sound. He raised himself on his elbow and grasped his pistol. There were more steps. They came nearer. A hand was passed cautiously over the door. Warren touched the form of Steward. “What is it?” he asked in a whisper. “Listen!” The movement at the door continued as softly as before. “Who’s there?” called out Steward. “Travellers; we want to find the road.” “Where from?” “Missouri.” “Where yer boun?” shouted Maybee, jumping to his feet. There was a sound of parleying in subdued voices at Maybee’s question. Then came the answer, “Nebraska.” “You’re right for that. This is the Jim Lane route. Keep the main road and you’ll not miss it,” again answered Steward. A moment passed. Then came the inquiry: “Can you put us up till mornin?” “Cayn’t do it,” spoke up Maybee again. “Our beds are full. How many of you?” “Two.” “Sorry, but you’ll have to keep on. Can’t do anything for you.” “Say, have you seen anything of a nigger man an’ gal an’ a white man a-pilotin’ ’em?” “Nary one, mister,” again spoke up Maybee. “Reckon we’ll push on then.” The sound of horses’ feet died in the distance. After that there was no more sleep in the cabin, though the remainder of the night passed in quiet. Steward and his guests were early astir. The storm had cleared. The men left the house to prepare for an early start at the first streaks of dawn; when they returned, Mrs. Steward had breakfast ready. Silence pervaded the little band. Each was pre-occupied with thoughts he did not care to discuss. CHAPTER IX. In the early morning light they rode away through the quiet beauty of the woods. The sweetness of the cool air was grateful to them after the feverish anxiety of the night. The dew of the morning sparkled on bud and leaf, and the sunlight sifted dimly through the trees. Parson Steward rode at the head of the small cavalcade, and Mr. Maybee at the rear; Winona was between Warren and Judah. It was Warren, however, who had helped her to mount and who did the countless trivial things which add to one’s comfort, and are so dear to a woman, coming from one man.