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The wind of their running was cold and wild, the horses were lathered and their manes streamed like stiff black pennants in the wind.
The mare began to tire and Clayton felt the spray of snow from the hoofs of Gavin's stallion.
The land over which he sped was the land he had created and lived in: his valley.
The Gap looming before him -- the place where had confronted Jack English on that day so many years ago -- was his exit from all that had meaning to him.
The sentry was not dead.
`` The main bunch is outside, but there are some over there inside the wall ''.
The guerrilla bivouac remained silent.
`` The way you were careful ''??
The guard stood in the shadow of the stockade wall just out of reach of the moonlight.
The guard instinctively parried the blow with his rifle.
The bullet went wide.
The explosion of the rifle had crashed against the walls of the stockade and the deep echoes were still rolling in the hills.
The startled horses began rearing on their tethers.
The sentry's saddled horse stood picketed nearby, having been kept handy in case of need.
The rest of us can fort up in the house and hang on until you get back.
The animals thundered away into the moonlight, heading for the ridges.
The guerrillas were swarming from their bivouac at the west end of the enclosure.
The guerrillas were running across the parade ground and through the rear gate in the wake of the departing horses.
The area was deserted.
The orderly room seemed to be deserted.
The stockade was brilliantly lighted and the guerrillas sighted him.
The three of them floundered through the door into the interior and fell in a heap.
The iron hinges held, but the planks were in danger of being torn from the crossbars.
The guerrillas scattered for cover.
The wagons were burning fiercely.

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