There
could only be two alternatives, since not a man showed on the hills. Either
they waited in ambush, or else they had mistaken the route along which
Barry would come, and the latter was hardly possible. With his glasses Mark
Retherton scanned the hills anxiously and it was then that he saw the dark
form of the wolf-dog skulking on before the outlaw. He had watched Black
Bart before this, of course, but never with suspicion until he noted the
peculiar manner in which the animal skirted here and there through the
rough ground, pausing on high places, weaving back and forth across the
course of his master.
"Like a scout," thought Retherton. "And by God, there he comes to report!"
For Black Bart had whirled and raced straight back for Dan. There was no
need of howl or whine to give the reason of his coming; the speed of his
running meant business, and Barry shortened the pace of Satan while he
looked over the hills, incredulous, despairing.
It could not be that men lurked there to cut him off. No living thing could
have raced from Rickett to Caswell City to warn them of his coming.
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