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"While these things were acting in this part of the field, and towards the close of the action, which did not last long for though much was done, it was done quickly when the enemy was somewhat thinned and considerably scattered, and our men were scattered amongst them, Clark, one of the men mentioned above, suddenly called out to his comrade, David King, to 'take care of the Indian that was near to him. The warrior turned upon Clark; at the same instant, King fired at him with Whitley's gun, and lodged the two balls which he knew it was loaded with, in the chieftain's breast for when Whitley fell, King threw away his own gun, and took the better one and the powder horn of the old Indian fighter.
The clerk glanced hard at him again. "Waring!" he repeated, turning over the leaves of his big book for further verification. "Waring! Waring! Waring! Ah, here it is; Waring, Guy; journalist; 22, Staple Inn; 300 shares. Three hundred pounds paid. Then we call up to three thousand. No, Mr. Nevitt didn't settle for you, sir. He paid Mr. Whitley's call in full. That was all. Nothing else.
He had an idea Whitley's business was petering out. Well, it was, and he was glad enough to sub-let to Henry. Never knew, either, until after the lease was signed, who we were. Furnished kind of nice, don't you think?" "Why, Ma!" protests Rowena. Then she turns to Vee. "Of course, it'll do for a while, until we find something decent up on Riverside Drive; one with a motor entrance, you know.
We spent the afternoon pitching camp on an aspen knoll, with water, grass, and wood near at hand, and the splendid view of mountains and valleys below. We spent many full days under the shadow of Whitley's Peak. After the middle of September the aspens colored and blazed to the touch of frost, and the mountain slopes were exceedingly beautiful.
"Are you a shareholder?" he asked, with one eye on the policeman. "What do you want to know for?" "Yes, I'm a shareholder, unfortunately," Guy answered, still in a maze. "I hold three hundred original shares. My name's Guy Waring. You've got me on your books. Mr. Nevitt has paid three thousand in Mr. Whitley's name, and three thousand for me. That was our arrangement."
In the fall of 1779, Samuel Daviess, who resided in Bedford county, Virginia, moved with his family to Kentucky, and lived for a time, at Whitley's station, in Lincoln.
The room where they stood was well carpeted and furnished, and upon the table were the remains of a meal, together with empty bottles and glasses, and lying on the chair was a woman's glove. Frank looked around curiously. He had heard rumors of Whitley's place in the country, but this was his first visit.
Whitley's sudden return to Boyd City, and his departure so soon after, revived some whispering gossip about Amy's strange disappearance. And of course the matter was mentioned at the Ministerial Association, which still held its regular Monday morning meetings. Then, as was natural, the talk drifted to the much discussed topic, the low standard of morality in Boyd City.
When Dick had finished his story, Whitley's face was drawn and haggard. He leaped to his feet again, but the revolver motioned him back. "What fiend told you all this?" he gasped hoarsely. "Who are you?" "I am the driver." Whitley sank back in his chair; then suddenly broke into a harsh laugh. "You are a crazy fool. Who would believe you? You have no proof." "Wait a bit," replied Dick, calmly.
But the keen eye of the man used to danger, had seen his stealthy preparation, and his wrist was caught in a grasp of iron. The city-bred villain was no match for his mountain-trained companion and the struggle was short. Keeping his hold upon Whitley's wrist, Jake threw his long right arm around his antagonist and drew him close, in a crushing embrace.
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