Something was
coming up the path, so he swiftly knotted his bridle-reins around
a sapling, stepped noiselessly into the path and noiselessly
slipped past the big tree where he dropped to his knees, crawled
forward and lay flat, peering over the cliff and down the winding
trail. He had not long to wait. A riderless horse filled the
opening in the covert of leaves that swallowed up the path. It was
gray and he knew it as he knew the saddle as his old enemy's--
Dave. Dave had kept his promise--he had come back. The dream was
coming true, and they were to meet at last face to face. One of
them was to strike a trail more lonesome than the Trail of the
Lonesome Pine, and that man would not be John Hale. One detail of
the dream was going to be left out, he thought grimly, and very
quietly he drew his pistol, cocked it, sighted it on the opening--
it was an easy shot--and waited. He would give that enemy no more
chance than he would a mad dog--or would he? The horse stopped to
browse. He waited so long that he began to suspect a trap. He
withdrew his head and looked about him on either side and behind--
listening intently for the cracking of a twig or a footfall.
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