Up near the mountain no one ever spoke to another concerning anything that happened. Not a word ever escaped the lips of those sturdy farmers. If somebody was killed, that somebody was buried by his own people, and the wailing and gnashing of teeth was confined chiefly to the unhappy kin-folk. There were none to console them, no one condoled with them, they grieved in solitude.

In the village it was quite different, though even there no one dared to speak openly against an individual or a "click" or "clan." The fact that someone had been murdered by the terrible "Black ghosts of the night," or that the settlers had been terrified by the fearful, hideous howlings of the ravagers of peace, concerned everyone in the village, and old women talked of it over the fence, old men jabbered about it as they sat on dry-goods boxes, whittling on the soft pine boxes or squirting great streams of tobacco juice between their two first fingers, watching it until it struck the earth some six feet away or flowed gently down the boot leg of someone standing dangerously near. One old man, fearless on account of his many years in the country, did say once that "them damn Riders ought all to be hung by the neck until they were dead." When he had said that he dropped his head to spit, and when he raised it again he was alone, every man near him having slipped quietly away, leaving him to his own way of thinking.

Men gathered together up the valley way, but they talked farm products straight and "wunk" at each other in a knowing way. There was one farm upon which an immense tobacco crop had sprung up, and the eyes of every farmer in the community were cast toward it. Not in many years had so many men passed that way. Not in many days had there been so many clandestine meetings over the country, mostly around and beyond the mountain. What was it all about? It surely meant ill for someone, but for whom? That was the great question.

Jack Wade had gone to visit the city, Nora Judson was busy with her domestic duties, and Tom had gone on a jaunt over the hill, while the warehouse operator remarked to his companion that he had been appointed special officer, that the regular officers were afraid of their shadows, and would not move a peg, and the Nightriders were gathering again and destruction was imminent. It had been mere chance that had put him next to the business that bid fair to bring much sport, and he was going with his trusty rifle and faithful horse to see if he couldn't arrest a Rider before morning. As he was in sore need of a companion, he invited his friend to accompany him. The matter looked so feasible, and as the Riders had given both of them so much trouble, he consented to go along as an assistant to the appointed officer. Of what was to happen he received perfect knowledge from the warehouse man.

Wade also was deeply interested. A certain barn with its contents of high-priced tobacco was to be burned by two lone Nightriders, and this fact—that there would be only two—was hailed with great pleasure, for the chances would not only be equal, but the advantage was decidedly with the officers, as they were cognizant of the raid contemplated, while the Riders were totally in the dark regarding their knowledge or identity.

The arrangement was that they should meet at a certain place and proceed out of Guthrie to a given point some distance out and some distance still on the other side of the mountain. Wade knew the exact spot where they were to locate themselves in hiding until the Nightriders should pass, and he also knew what their intentions were after that. His great longing to learn something more of the terrible Nightriders, and of the manner in which it was expected they would be handled on this occasion, caused him to make a hurried trip back to his own cabin to make hasty arrangements for a long ride through the darkness of night. When his clock tolled the hour nine he began that tedious lonesome ride down the valley. Uppermost in his mind was the movements and actions of the Nightriders, who had become active again and who were threatening with utter destruction the entire country, composed of twenty-two counties of the richest soil in Kentucky and Tennessee. Notices had been posted everywhere, giving warning to the open raisers, stating that no man should attempt to sell tobacco openly, that he who was not for the association was against it. One was found on Wade's own gatepost, and he gave it deep, thoughtful consideration. He had fully intended raising a very large crop of tobacco the coming season, and he intended doing it openly, unless his mind should be changed in the meantime.

Wade rode on, putting his horse to a trot, then as time went by, to a gallop. Had it not been for the brightly shining little stars the night would have been utter darkness, but the twinkling little heavenly bodies lighted the way sufficiently well to allow of seeing and keeping the beaten road. Thoughts concerning happenings of the past were flitting rapidly through Wade's brain, tumbling one over the other in rapid succession, in their great hurry to get through, while he traveled on, unmindful of the awful darkness that encompassed him or of the blood-curdling deeds which would be committed on that memorable night. At last, tired and sore, he reached the vicinity of the barn soon to be burned and the vicinity of a community where murder, foul to some and gladsome to the hearts of others, would soon be committed.

Jack Wade had learned through his experiences of the past to be very cautious on all occasions, more especially on occasions like the present one, therefore he sought out a quiet dark spot in the brush and waited silently to see what should happen. The distance he had traveled brought him very late at the goal, so he was compelled to wait not long before he saw sights enough to weaken the heart of the strongest man.

The little stars twinkled on from their orbits in the sky, the cuckoo sang from a remote distance, the woodland animals scampered over their runs, making the dry leaves crack as they flurried on. Suddenly a faint light arose over the woodland, and grew until it lighted up the whole country around the anxious watcher. It became so very light where he was that he was compelled to recede deeper into the underbrush. The great flame grew brighter and higher, leaping heavenward at every bound, making a terrible, cracking noise. Wade's heart beat heavily against his bosom, but he watched on. Not a great way off he heard the cracking of the dry twigs. It was much heavier than the noise made by scampering animals, and he knew instantly that the two officers were near. He continued to keep silent, listening breathlessly to every sound. Soon there came to his listening ears the heavy sound or clatter of rapidly retreating horses. The riders passed his hiding-place and on they flew, pushing their horses to full speed over the rough trail. Then, "Oh, God!" In the next moment there rang out upon the midnight stillness the terrible "crack!" of a death-dealing rifle, and in response a boy went down to the earth heavily. Some mother's idol received a wound that would take him hurriedly into eternity. His horse sped on, riderless. Another "crack!" from those rifles and the other horse was killed in his tracks, falling near the dying lad, while his rider, untouched, unhurt, darted off into the thick sheltering brush and was seen no more.

Those who had fired the shots that caused death and sorrow, weeping and wailing, listened not to the wailing of the dying boy, heard not his pitiful moaning, nor his distressed cry for assistance, but thinking of themselves dashed off through the brush, to safety, in an opposite direction. They had got a Rider, and were evidently well satisfied with their night's work. Fiends, may the tortures of hell be theirs!

Jack Wade, born with a love for his fellow-man, did hear and heed that dying wail, and slowly led his own good steed out from his hiding-place and on to the groaning one. He bent over him and looked into his contorted face with a heavy, sorrowful heart. He was not dead, but dying.

"Friend or foe," whispered the youth, as Wade appeared over him.

"Friend," replied Wade.

"Then you didn't shoot me?"

"No. Thank God, I didn't shoot you, lad." Tears were gathering in Wade's eyes.

"I'm glad you didn't, stranger," said the lad. "I'm Fred Conover, and I'm dying now. I can feel the cold, clammy sweat of death gathering over me, my eyes are blinded until all is dark. I know that the death call has been sounded to me, and I am going, going, but I am dying for a good cause." He gasped his words now. "Stranger," he whispered, softly, "you may not be a Rider—you ought to be. You may not be in open revolt against us—you should not be. Listen, stranger, listen well to my last words on earth, that you may carry them to the heart of every man in this community, to the heart of every well-thinking man in the world, that all the world may know we are right. My father was once a well-to-do, honest, faithful farmer, but the trusts and combined wealth put his nose to the grind-stone. I must speak quick. But for them we could have lived nicely and comfortable. They took everything and forced—stranger, help the Riders, for in doing so you are helping the poor people, the struggling millions. You are helping the widow and orphans, you are helping those who must die of starvation unless the fight is kept up a few more years. Tell them I died willingly for them, that my heart is with them in my dying moments; that I shall carry the burden to God; that I do not hesitate, have no fear, and tell my father——"

The boy threw his head back, raised his breast, then fell to the earth once more. Jack Wade raised the lad's head and placed it gently upon his own limb, that he might remember he died there. The small bottle of whiskey which Wade took out from town was still in his pocket and he gave the boy of it to drink.

"I thought that was my last moment," said the boy, after sipping the whiskey. "I feel quite relieved now. They are mean, stranger," he continued, with a catching breath. "Those fellows will raise tobacco for the trusts, and must be handled severely. I do not regret my action, I do not regret that my last act was to apply the torch to yon burning building. No, I do not."

Here was an opportunity, Wade thought, to learn something of interest, so he placed his lips close to the dying lad's ear and asked if he knew John Redmond before he was killed.

"I knew him well," he replied, gasping for breath, "and he was the grandest——"

The head fell limp, the boy breathed his last. Fred Conover was dead.

Immediately the surroundings took on a death-chamber appearance. Wade removed his limb from beneath the dead boy's head and laid him gently upon the cold, damp earth. Beside him was the carcass of the big black horse which fell dead at the same time the boy went down. They were both dead. The pall grew heavier. Wade raised himself, looked at the horse, then into the deathly pale face of the boy, raising his head slowly until he looked into the heavens, then said:

"O God, Thou great God, Thou hast, through thy mercy, saved me from this awful deed."

He let his head drop again.

"That was a dog of a deed for an officer to commit," he said mentally. "It was nothing but cold-blooded murder. Why did he not show himself and make an effort to arrest, rather than do murder in this fashion, the dirty coward!" said Wade, with a wave of his head. "You are free just now, but freedom shall be taken from you for this night's ghastly work, for this foul deed which has taken from earth all that was dear to a good mother and father. If you hang"—Wade shook his fist toward the brush tragically—"the shame and sorrow shall fall upon your own head and heart."

Throwing his coat over the dead form, Wade drew it to one side and departed.