This was instantly followed by the appearance of three men who came running from around the load of hay, down the road toward the thieves. Each man carried a pitchfork, and as they ran, one of the trio shouted:
"Right at 'em, boys! Jab your hay forks clean through the scoundrels! By Heck, I guess we'll show 'em we know how t' tackle a hold-up gang as well as the next fellow! Right at 'em now! Charge 'em! Stick your forks right through 'em!" Again there sounded a fusilade of pistol shots.
The thieves turned as one man, and glanced at the relief so unexpectedly approaching. They gave one look at the three determined looking farmers, with their sharp, glittering pitchforks, and then, without a word, they turned and fled, leaping into the bushes that lined the roadway. The underbrush closed after them and they were hidden from sight.
On came the three farmers, waving their effective weapons, the pistol shots still ringing out from the load of hay. Tom could not understand it, and could see no one firing—could detect no smoke.
"Are they gone? Did they rob ye?" asked the foremost of the trio, a burly, grizzled farmer.
