I know you, you night raider, and will bring you to book yet.

Forward men--trot! Close up the rank there, sergeant; we'll take the road to the left." I watched them go past, the dust-covered green uniforms slipping by the crack of the door, as the men urged their horses faster.

Farrell never moved, the blue tobacco smoke curling above his head, and I stole across the littered storeroom to a cobwebbed window, from which I could watch the little column of riders go down the hill.

They finally disappeared in the edge of a grove, and I turned around to find the blacksmith leaning against his anvil waiting for me.
"Genial young fellow, Grant," he said.

"Always promising to hang me, but never quite ready to tackle the job.