It is long past midnight. A preternatural stillness broods over the four corners where the north and south road, two miles north from Clyde, intersects the road running east and west, that bears westward toward the coal beds and the river.

There are no houses within sight of these corners, and very few trees; but the northeastern corner is bounded by what the farmers call a "brush fence," an unsightly barricade of rails, interwoven with tall, ragged, and brambly brush, the cuttings, probably, from some rank-growing hedge.

The section to the southwest is bordered by a prim hedge, thrifty and green, evenly trimmed, and so low that a man could leap across it with ease.

And now the silence is broken by the sound of wheels coming from the direction of Clyde; swift running wheels that soon bring their burden to the four corners, and then come to a sudden halt.

It is a light buggy, none other than that owned by Mr. Larkins, of Clyde, drawn by his roans that "go in no time," and it contains three men.

"There!" says the driver, who is Larkins himself, springing to the ground, and thrusting his arm through the reins, "here we are, with nothing to do but wait. We always do wait, you know."

"Yes, I know," assents a second individual, descending to the ground in his turn. "We're always on time. Now, if a man only could smoke—but he can't."

And Ed. Dwight shrugs his shoulders and burrows in his pockets, and shuffles his feet, as only Ed. Dwight can.

"Might's well get out, Briggs," says Larkins, to the man who still sits in the buggy.

"Might's well stay here, too," retorts that individual, gruffly. "I'm comfortable."

Larkins sniffs, and pats the haunch of the off roan.

Dwight snaps a leaf from the hedge and chews it nervously.

The man in the buggy sits as still as a mummy.

Presently there comes again the sound of wheels. Not noisy wheels, that would break in upon midnight slumbers, nor ghostly wheels, whose honesty might be called in question, but well oiled, smooth running wheels, that break but do not disturb the stillness.

These also approach the cross roads, and then stop.

The first are those of a coal wagon, drawn by four handsome horses; the second, those of a vehicle of the same description, drawn by two fine steeds.

Two men occupy the first wagon; one the next.

As the foremost wagon pauses, Larkins tosses his reins to the silent man in the buggy, and advances, followed by Dwight.

"Anything wrong?" queries Larkins.

"Not if you are all right," replies a harsh voice, a voice that has a natural snarl in it.

"All right, Cap'n; give us your orders."

The two men in the wagon spring to the ground, and begin to unharness the foremost horses. The other wagon comes closer.

"You and Briggs are to take in these two teams. Tom is to go on with the Morgans. Dwight is to take us back to Trafton," says the rasping voice.

Dwight comes closer, and then exclaims:

"By George, Captain, it's you in person."

"Yes, it's me," shortly. "Simpson failed to come, and I wanted to have a few words with you and Larkins. Hark! What's that?"

Wheels again; swift rushing, rattling wheels. Six heads are turned toward the north, whence they approach.

Suddenly there is a whistle, short and shrill.

Men are bounding over the low hedge to the left! Men are rising up from the long grass by the roadside!

Oaths, ejaculations, cracking of pistols, plunging of horses—

"The first man who attempts to run will be shot down!"

I hear these words, as I drive the Brookhouse roadster, foaming and panting, into the midst of the melee.

In spite of the warning one man has made a dart for liberty, has turned and rushed directly upon my horse.

In spite of the darkness his sharp eyes recognize the animal. What could his son's horse bring save a warning or a rescue?

He regains his balance, which, owing to his sudden contact with the horse, he had nearly lost, and springs toward me as my feet touch the earth.

"Arch!"

Before he can realize the truth my hands are upon him. Before he can recover from his momentary consternation other hands seize him from behind.

The captain of the horse-thieves, the head and front and brains of the band, is bound and helpless!

It is soon over; the horse-thieves fight well; strive hard to evade capture; but the attack is so sudden, so unexpected, and they are unprepared, although each man, as a matter of course, is heavily armed.

The vigilants have all the advantage, both of numbers and organization. While certain ones give all their attention to the horses, the larger number look to the prisoners.

Briggs, the silent man in the buggy, is captured before he knows what has happened.

Tom Briggs, his cowardly brother, is speedily reduced to a whimpering poltroon.

Ed. Dwight takes to his heels in spite of the warning of Captain Warren, and is speedily winged with a charge of fine shot. It is not a severe wound, but it has routed his courage, and he is brought back, meek and pitiful enough, all the jauntiness crushed out of him.

Larkins, my jehu on a former occasion, makes a fierce fight; and Louis Brookhouse, who still moves with a limp, resists doggedly.

Our vigilants have received a few bruises and scratches, but no wounds.

The struggle has been short, and the captives, once subdued, are silent and sullen.

We bind them securely, and put them in the coal wagons which now, for the first time, perhaps, are put to a legitimate use.

We do not care to burden ourselves with Larkins' roans, so they are released from the buggy and sent galloping homeward.

The bay Morgans, which have been "stolen" for the sake of effect, are again harnessed, as leaders of the four-in-hand. The vigilants bring out their horses from behind the brush fence, and the procession starts toward Trafton.

No one attempts to converse with the captives. No one deigns to answer a question, except by a monosyllable.

'Squire Brookhouse is wise enough to see that he can gain nothing by an attempt at bluster or bribery. He maintains a dogged silence, and the others, with the exception of Dwight, who can not be still under any circumstances, and Tom Briggs, who makes an occasional whimpering attempt at self-justification, which is heeded by no one, all maintain a dogged silence. And we move on at a leisurely pace, out of consideration for the tired horses.

As we approach Trafton, the Summer sun is sending up his first streak of red, to warn our side of the world of his nearness; and young Warren reins his horse out from the orderly file of vigilants, who ride on either side of the wagons.

He gallops forward, turns in his saddle to look back at us, waves his hat above his head, and then speeds away toward the village.

I am surprised at this, but, as I look from one face to another, I see that the vigilants, some of them, at least, understand the movement, and so I ask no questions.

I am not left long in suspense as to the meaning of young Warren's sudden leave-taking, for, as we approach to within a mile of Trafton, our ears are greeted by the clang of bells, all the bells of Trafton, ringing out a fiercely jubilant peal.

I turn to look at 'Squire Brookhouse. He has grown old in an instant; his face looks ashen under the rosy daylight. The caverns of his eyes are larger and deeper, and the orbs themselves gleam with a desperate fire. His lifeless black locks flutter in the morning breeze. He looks forlorn and desperate. Those clanging bells are telling him his doom.

Warren has done his work well. When we come over the hill into Trafton, we know that the news is there before us, for a throng has gathered in the street, although the hour is so early.

The bells have aroused the people. The news that the Trafton horse-thieves are captured at last, in the very act of escaping with their booty, has set the town wild.

Not long since these same horse-thieves have led Trafton on to assault, to accuse, and to vilify an innocent man. Now, those who were foremost at the raiding of Bethel's cottage, are loudest in denouncing those who were then their leaders; and the cry goes up,

"Hand over the horse-thieves! Hand them out! Lynch law's good enough for them!"

But we are fourteen in number. We have captured the prisoners, and we mean to keep them.

Once more my pistols, this time fully loaded, are raised against a Trafton mob, and the vigilants follow my example.

We guard our prisoners to the door of the jail, and then the vigilants post themselves as a wall of defence about the building, while Captain Warren sets about the easy task of raising a trusty relief guard to take the places of his weary men.

It is broad day now. The sun glows round and bright above the Eastern horizon. I am very weary, but there is work yet to be done.

I leave Captain Warren at the door of the jail, and hasten toward the Hill.