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As the machine slipped over the hilltop hiding the dam from sight, Bob turned his eyes to the front. He was riding into the future, happy and content. At first glance there seemed nothing amiss. To Bob’s untrained eye, the shadows that lay heavily in the dark of the night were only scrub pine and underbrush. But as he looked these shadows took form and substance. They were men, sitting or lying relaxed, in attitudes of waiting. A faint nicker and trampling of hoofs told that horses were hobbled in the vicinity. “Why don’t they shoot?” he thought. Hardly had the thought flashed through his brain when a bullet whistled by him. Then came another and another. “Oh, John! My boy!” called Mother from the dining-room window..