That house, too,
was lighted and the sound of fiddling struck his ears. He would
give them a surprise; so he gathered his reins and Winchester in
his left hand, drew his revolver with his right, and within thirty
yards started his horse into a run, yelling like an Indian and
firing his pistol in the air. As he swept by, two or three figures
dashed pell-mell indoors, and he shouted derisively:
"Run, damn ye, run!" They were running for their guns, he knew,
but the taunt would hurt and he was pleased. As he swept by the
edge of a cornfield, there was a flash of light from the base of a
cliff straight across, and a bullet sang over him, then another
and another, but he sped on, cursing and yelling and shooting his
own Winchester up in the air--all harmless, useless, but just to
hurl defiance and taunt them with his safety. His father's house
was not far away, there was no sound of pursuit, and when he
reached the river he drew down to a walk and stopped short in a
shadow. Something had clicked in the bushes above him and he bent
over his saddle and lay close to his horse's neck. The moon was
rising behind him and its light was creeping toward him through
the bushes.
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