yet see little. They were upon the opposite side from the town, with no gleam of lights visible, prairie and sky blending together into spectral dimness, with no sound audible but the continued quarrel in the front room of the jail. Keith crept along to the end of the building from where he could perceive the lights of the town twinkling dimly through the intense blackness. Evidently the regular evening saturnalia had not yet begun, although there was already semblance of life about the numerous saloons, and an occasional shout punctuated the stillness. A dog howled in the distance, and the pounding of swift hoofs along the trail told of fresh arrivals. An hour later and the single street of Carson City would be alive with humanity, eager for any excitement, ready for any wild orgy, if only once turned loose. That it would be turned loose, and also directed, the man lying on his face in the grass felt fully assured. He smiled grimly, wishing he might behold “Black Bart's” face when he should discover the flight of his intended victims. But there was no time to lose; every moment gained, added to their chance of safety.
“Are those horses tied there by the blacksmith's shop?” he asked, pointing.
The negro stared in the direction indicated, confused by the shadows thrown by the dim lights.
“I reck'n dey am, Massa Jack; I done make out fo'.”
“Then two of them must belong to us; come on, boy.”
He ran forward, crouching behind every chance cover, and keeping well back behind the line of shacks. A slight depression in the prairie helped conceal their movements, and neither spoke until they were crouching together beside the wall of the shop. Then Neb, teeth chattering, managed to blurt forth:
“Fo' de Lawd's sake, yer don't actually mean ter steal dem hosses?”
Keith glanced about at the other's dim, black shadow.
“Sure not; just borrow 'em.”
“But dat's a hangin' job in dis yere country, Massa Jack.”
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