Chapter I

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CONTENTS

THE IRON CHALICE 3

HAPSBURG LIEBE

THE NORTH WIND'S MESSAGE (Verse) 77

DANFORD G. BRITTON

IN MEMORY OF HENRY CLAY MANLEY 78

THOMAS McMORROW

FIRES OF FATE 90

W. C. TUTTLE

MAKE GOLD WHILE THE WATER RUNS 112

ROBERT RUSSELL STRANG

THE ROAD TO MONTEREY (Part II) 124

GEORGE WASHINGTON OGDEN

THE PACKET ADMIRAL 144

W. E. CARLETON

HENRY HORNBONE'S ONE-MAN WAR 151

HELEN TOPPING MILLER

FROM ONE TO ANOTHER 159

EARL C. McCAIN

DESERT DRIFT 167

JOHN BRIGGS

THE STORY-TELLER'S CIRCLE 174

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THE IRON CHALICE

BY HAPSBURG LIEBE

_Author of "The Clan Call," "Alias Arizona Red," etc._

A STORY OF THE TENNESSEE MOUNTAINS THAT TAKES YOU INTO THE HEARTS

AND LIVES OF BIG-HEARTED, QUICK-TEMPERED CLANSMEN; INTO A BITTER

FEUD, AND INTO THE WAR THAT STARTED WHEN LITTLE BUCK WOLFE BROUGHT

HIS LOGGING RAILROAD INTO WOLFE'S BASIN

I

The county's prisoners were passing the gate where Alice Fair and

Arnold Mason were standing. They were going jailward, their hands and

faces sweat-stained and begrimed from long hours at hard labor. The

rattle of picks and shovels and irons drowned out entirely the sounds

their weary feet made on the pavement. Arnold Mason saw only the

pitiful lack of spirit in their downcast eyes. It touched deeply the

sympathetic heart of this man who was of mountain blood, but to whom

the Masons had given a city home. He had that tender and magnificent

understanding of human sorrows that is so rare except in those who

themselves have suffered.

But there was one of the passers-by who walked with his head proudly

erect. He was very tall, rawboned and sunburned, and in his dead-black

eyes shone the light of an anguish deep and sullen. His great right

hand gripped the handle of the pick he carried over his shoulder as

though it would crush the wood. He turned his pale, hard face toward

the pair of lovers at the gate. Arnold Mason and the girl he hoped to

marry saw that three parallel lines, three bow-shaded scars, stood out

on his right cheek like streaks of white paint.

They were the marks of a wildcat's claws, put there years before. And

it was by those marks, chiefly, that young Mason recognized the man as

his own mother's son and her first born.

"Oliver!" he exclaimed.

The big mountaineer centered his gaze upon his youngest brother. To

him, also, recognition had dawned. A queer smile parted his beard and

mustaches and showed a flash of strong, white teeth.

"Hello thar, Little Buck Wolfe!" he cried sharply. "Leadin' a high life

now, hain't ye?"

Mason stood there, as silent and as motionless as a stone, and watched

the clanking line of prisoners until friendly trees along the street

blotted out the sight. When he faced Alice Fair, he noted a decided

change in her manner.

"He called you 'Little Buck Wolfe,'" she observed coldly. "Was that

your other name?"

"Yes."

"I think it's horrid. Who was that?"

He told her. She winced, but he continued, "My father's given name was

Buck. He was a giant of a man, and he was my boyhood's ideal of what a

man should be--naturally. I wanted to be named for him; I went without

a name until I was nine. So they called me 'Little Buck.'"

"You told me that your people----"

"Were upright and honorable in their way," Mason cut in gloomily. "As I

knew them, they were, certainly. I've never been back there. I had to

study almost day and night, because I started to school so late. I--I

guess I was so much interested in myself that I forgot them."

"And you didn't know until just now," pointedly, "that you had a

brother in jail?"

"I've been out of town for three weeks, Alice, you'll remember," he

muttered. "I came home only yesterday."

"Well," frowning, "what's the good of going over it? You can't expect

me to marry you when you've got a brother in jail, here under our very

noses. Honestly, can you?"

She held out to him the diamond ring he had given her an hour before.

He accepted it mechanically, and mechanically put it into his pocket.

Without another word, she went rapidly toward the house.

Arnold Mason, Little Buck Wolfe that was, walked slowly, with no clear

thought as to direction, up the shadowy street. If there is anything

that can change the gold of goodness in the mountain heart to iron, it

is--this.

[Illustration]

The high, barred window of Oliver Wolfe's cell opened to the east.

At that window, his bearded face pressed against the bars, his eyes

longingly watching the dim shape of Buffalo Mountain fade into the

night, stood Oliver Wolfe. He did this every evening now, watched

Buffalo Mountain, which was hardly more than a foothill, fade into the

night.

Came the sound of footfalls in the corridor, and he turned his head.

Just beyond the iron-latticed door, he saw the shapes of two tall men.

A key grated in the lock, and he heard a voice.

"I'd like to be alone with him, Sheriff Starnes."

"Certainly, Mr. Mason," the officer answered courteously. "Call me when

you want to go out."

The door opened and closed, the key grated in the lock again, and

Oliver Wolfe stood face to face with his brother.

"Why did they put you here, Oliver?"

"For a-provin' I was the best man in town, surlily."

"I see. Assault and battery."

"With attemp' to kill," the prisoner added with a certain pride.

"'Leven months and twenty-nine days, and eight o' the days done gone."

He put a hand on his brother's shoulder and shook him roughly.

"Nobody sent fo' you to come here," he said hotly. "Hain't ye afeard

ye'll dirty them fine clo'es o' yore'n? You mis'able town dude, whyn't

ye be a man, like I am?"

Arnold Mason said nothing to that. A moment of silence passed. Oliver

Wolfe's black eyes ceased to stare contempt; perhaps some tender memory

of their boyhood days together was at work in his brain.

"But mebbe you ain't as rotten as I thought ye was, Little Buck," he

went on. "I thought you was pow'ful stuck-up, y' see. I'm a-goin' to

tell ye somethin', and you listen:

"You know pap he used to be the law and its enfo'cement out at home.

You know he used to deal out jestice wi' his fists when anybody done

wrong, and you know he was allus square. He was king o' the section

then. But he hain't no more. He's only the leader o' the Wolfe clan

now, Little Buck. He--"

"The Wolfe _clan_!" Mason exclaimed surprisedly.

"The Wolfe clan," Oliver repeated impatiently. "Well, them Singletons,

'at lives at the upper end o' the basin, has been a-fightin' us

fo' a long time. Tuck he's dead, and Biddle, and Simon, and Cousin

Lije's Buster, and Aunt Jinny's Simmerly--every one of 'em buried wi'

Singleton bullets in 'em. When I left home, pap he was a-layin' on the

flat o' his back wi' a bullet in his shoulder. But le' me tell ye this

right now--the Wolfe's they hain't a-goin' to quit fightin' ontel they

hain't able to crook a trigger-finger no more!"

Oliver Wolfe clicked his teeth together savagely, clenched his fists,

and began to pace the cell floor. After a minute spent thus, he went

back to Mason and pursued.

"I was a dang fool. I slipped down to town here to buy some ca'tridges,

got in a rucus, and got arrested--but it took three good men to do it,

and don't ye fo'git that--and them a-needin' every Wolfe by name out

thar to fight Singletons! The's a good many more Singletons an' the' is

Wolfes, y'see, and the' hain't but dang few Singleton's 'at cain't cut

down a hangin' hosshair with a bullet. And so I'll come to the p'int at

last.

"Little Buck Wolfe, yore people needs you. You quit these here fool

ways o' yore'n, and git ye a rifle, and go out thar and fight wi' yore

own flesh and blood!"

Mason straightened as though he had been struck. Just then a lamp was

lighted in the corridor, and its rays showed the face of Oliver Wolfe

to be jerking under stress of emotion.

"Well," Oliver demanded, "are you a-goin' to wear the boots of a man?"

The other turned toward the iron-latticed door, and called to the

sheriff to come and let him out.

"Is yore name, dahlin' brother," sneered the jailbird, "Wolfe, or is it

Mason?"

"Wolfe," answered the stalwart young man at the door. "Wolfe. Now and

forever."

II

The bottom of Wolfe's Basin is two miles in length, one mile in

breadth, and as level as a prairie. The rockbound and majestic Big

Blackfern Mountain makes the eastern wall; the western wall is formed

by great Lost Trail Mountain, which lifts high toward the heavens a

bald peak called Pickett's Dome. A crystal-clear creek gushes from

under a rugged gray cliff at the junction of the Big Blackfern and the

Lost Trail, splits the basin's bottom in the centre, and flows out

through a dizzily-portaled pass, the same being known as Devil's Gate.

[Illustration]

Old Alex Singleton and his people lived in twenty-two low and rambling

log cabins near the south end of the basin. Old Buck Wolfe and his

people occupied eighteen cabins of the same kind near the basin's north

end, near the pass. Old Buck's mother lived alone save for a little

black dog named Wag. She was sixty-nine, white-headed, as wrinkled as

parchment, very sharp of feature and of tongue; she was called wise in

her understanding of the curative properties of herbs, and she was a

firm believer in supernatural tokens.

Granny Wolfe rose early on this fine summer morning. She slipped her

bent old body into a dark-figured calico dress, tied a pair of coarse

shoes on her rheumatic feet, wound a red bandana about her white head,

bathed her face and hands and dried them on a hempen towel. She filled

her clay pipe with homegrown tobacco, lighted it with a coal from the

yawning stone fireplace, and took up a long sourwood staff. Another

moment saw her entering the crooked, grass-lined path her feet had worn

to the home of her favorite son.

A sharp yowl caused her to stop, face about, and bring her staff down

hard.

"Durn ye, Wag, ye little devil," she muttered, "I left ye shet up

inside! But it's bad luck to turn back, and I jest hain't a-goin' to do

it. So yap as much as ye please, ye little devil!"

Now Old Buck Wolfe was a fiddler as well as a fighter, and when his

mother had reached a point some seventy yards from his primitive house

she was startled by hearing Buffalo Gals fiddled as she had rarely

or never heard it fiddled before. Thereupon Granny Wolfe's seamed

countenance showed signs of a great chagrin, and she began to talk to

herself:

"I'll--be--durned! Ef the durned fool hain't got out o' bed and went

to fiddlin'! Wisht I may drap dead in my tracks, ef he hain't! And

he'll be a-fightin' them 'ar Singletons afore night, as shore as the

Old Scratch hain't a grashopper! Well, I kep' him in bed as long as I

could. The bullethole it's done healed over. Now, I shore do wonder

what makes menfolks be allus a-wantin' to kill each other? The Lord ha'

mussy on us!"

The fiddler sat in a crude, homemade chair in the cabin's front

doorway. He was a huge man, and gaunt, and his long black hair and

beard were not without threads of silver. His mother halted a few feet

from him, and leaned heavily on her staff; she stared at him quite as

though she had never seen him before.

"Reckon ye'd know my hide in a tan-yard?" laughed Old Buck Wolfe,

dropping the instrument to his knee.

"Hain't you a purty thing, now--jest hain't you!" cried the old woman,

with her own particular brand of scorn.

Her son's keen black eyes twinkled. "What's got the matter o' you?"

"You git back in bed!" snapped Granny Wolfe.

Old Buck narrowed his eyes. "When I'm able to fiddle," he said, "I'm

able to fight. Stick that in yore pipe and smoke it, mother. Hey?"

"I'll be durned!" shrilled Granny Wolfe. "You wildcat, ye're a fixin'

to go fightin' ag'in! Sech a durned fool! And when is it ye're a-goin'

to commencet a-fightin,' Buck Wolfe?"

"Us Wolfes," soberly, "is to meet here at dinner-time, and start fo'

t'other end o' the basin. It'll be the last fight; d'ye onderstand

that?"

The old hillwoman's voice was soft when she spoke again.

"Don't do it, honey," she pleaded, almost pitifully. "Don't. I wisht I

may drap dead in my tracks ef I didn't see a star fall over this here

house last night, honey; and that 'ar is a shore sign o' death. And I

dreamp' o' seein' muddy water, and that's a bad sign, too. Don't do it

honey!"

The giant in the doorway laughed outright. He didn't believe in the

supernatural.

"My nose itches," he said, winking; "what's that a sign of?"

"Heh? Why, Buck Wolfe, it's a sign somebody is a-comin' hongry! Jest

wait and see ef it don't come true. But them 'ar Singletons, don't

tackle 'em ag'in!"

"I'd give a mule ef Oliver was here," her son muttered. He turned to

address a meek little woman who had come up behind his chair. "Sary,

that 'ar damned old blue-tailed hen's a-scratchin' up yore merrygolds

ag'in."

Then he rose, kicked his chair over, and threw fiddle and bow to a

nearby bed. He stepped to the ground, took his mother by her lean

shoulders, and shook her slightly. His whole countenance was terrible.

[Illustration]

"The Wolfes settled here fust!" he roared. "When I thrashed old

Alex Singleton fo' a-sellin' me a jug o' cawn whisky wi' a leaf o'

burley tobacker in it, he needed it. Ha! you fo'got pore little Tuck,

brother Brian's boy, and the rest of 'em, a-layin' up thar in the

old Blackfern's breast wi' hunks and hunks o' Singleton lead in 'em?

Mother, ha' you fo'got?"

"But Tuck he'd killed one o' the Singletons, which was the very fust

killin' of it all, too," Granny Wolfe returned sharply. "Asides, the

Wolfes has put as many Singletons in the Lost Trail as the Singletons

has put Wolfes in the Blackfern, and rickollect 'at! You'd shorely

better let it lay right whar it's at, Buck Wolfe."

He glowered down upon her. "The Singleton had called Tuck a liar,

mother, and you know it!" he snorted. "Now save yore breath, is my

advice. The fight is to be, and it will be."

The old woman limped into the cabin, where she tried to comfort Sarah

Wolfe, mother of Little Buck, the Arnold Mason that was.

Noontime came, and twenty Winchester rifles were brought and stacked

against a cedar in the narrow yard. Twenty men, some of them barely

grown, sat here and there, on the doorstep, on the woodpile, on the

ground; they were waiting for their leader to finish his mid-day meal,

and Old Buck was showing his contempt for danger by eating more than

usual.

When the Wolfes started toward the south end of the basin, the

Singletons moved toward the north end. Like the Wolfe chief, Alex

Singleton--a big-boned, broad-bodied man with deep, dark eyes and

straggling, sunburned black hair and beard--was not without some of

the qualities of a general and strategist. A Singleton sentinel on the

side of Pickett's Dome gave the alarm by waving a red bandana, then

raced down to join his kinsmen. A woman followed each of the sets of

fighters. One of them was old Granny Wolfe. The other was the Singleton

leader's only daughter.

The Wolfes' one-man advance guard ran back with the intelligence that

the enemy was just ahead. Old Buck rushed his little force to the

left, meaning to make a surprise attack on the Singleton's flank.

Oddly enough, Alex Singleton gave the same order at the same time,

with the result that the two sides lost each other, and spent hours in

maneuvering more or less blindly; not a shot was fired, and the silence

in the basin was the silence of the tomb.

Buck Wolfe's anxious mother saw that the shadow of bald Pickett's Dome

was reaching for the fringe of jackpines that grew on the jagged crest

of the Big Blackfern, and she knew it was almost four o'clock. Then,

there broke out ahead of her the keen, sharp thunder of rifles--the two

factions had met where there was no cover save for puny bushes, and it

would probably be a battle of extermination. She forgot her rheumatism,

dropped her long staff, and ran toward it.

Two others reached the midway point before Granny Wolfe reached it. One

of the two was a slender, barefooted young woman with deep blue eyes,

copper-colored hair that hung down her back in a single thick plait,

and a face that was quite finely handsome in spite of its tear-stains.

The other sat astride a rearing, plunging black horse; he was young and

stalwart, and an officer's shield gleamed over his heart.

"What's the big idea?" he was shouting. "What's the big idea, anyway?"

The daredevil personality of the newcomer awed the fighters. Even if

they might have counted him out, there would have been no possibility

of going on with the battle without danger to the two women. And

to continue the fighting there in the open, where they had met by

accident--well, the hillman is no coward, but he wants cover when he

fights.

The two little clans acted wisely. As though by a common agreement,

they crept off homeward without a word.

The old woman caught the rein of the now quiet horse.

"And who might you be, stranger," she cackled, "'at comes a-ridin' in

here like a angel o' the Lord?"

He smiled very pleasantly. "Don't you know me?"

"Not from Adam's off ox, nor a side o' sole-leather!" declared Granny

Wolfe.

"I know who it is," said the other of the three left upon the scene.

"Granny, it's Little Buck!"

"La, la, la! You don't tell me it's Little Buck. I be consarned ef I'll

believe it!" She shook her white head.

[Illustration]

"And I know you, too," Wolfe said to the young woman. "Your name is

Louisiana Theodosia Singleton, but they call you 'Tot.' You--er, you

were my sweetheart when I was a boy. Don't you remember, Tot? Surely,

you haven't forgotten the time when I thrashed Cat-Eye Mayfield and

threw him into the creek--there at the sand-bar under the willow--for

sticking pine-resin chewing gum into your hair! Don't you remember,

Tot? Afterward, when we'd disposed of the villain," and here Wolfe's

dark eyes twinkled engagingly, "you kissed me as a reward for my--er,

gallantry!"

Louisiana Theodosia Singleton blushed and said nothing. Little Buck's

grandmother was now convinced.

"Well ef it ain't you, shore enough," she cried. "Now didn't I tell

yore contrary old pap 'at somebody was a-comin' hongry? But who'd ever

ha' dreamp' you'd grow from the pesky boy you used to be into the

fine-lookin' man ye are! You shore do 'mind me o' yore pore grandpap

when he used to come to see me afore we was married. Look at him, Tot

Singleton; don't you reelly think he's jest grand-lookin'?"

"You--you're a-doin' the talkin' now, Granny," said Tot Singleton,

visibly embarrassed.

Wolfe smiled. But only for a moment. There came from somewhere near the

foot of Lost Trail Mountain an old and broken voice that seemed a part

of the peacefulness of the eternal hills; an old and broken voice that

was filled with the holiness of a benediction:

"'_And, lo, the star, which they saw in the East, went before

them----_'"

III

"That was pore Grandpap Bill Singleton 'at hollered," explained the old

woman, putting her right hand up to meet that of her kinsman. "We calls

him the 'Prophet', Little Buck."

She emitted a tiny shriek at his grip; he had forgotten her rheumatism.

He apologized quickly, and held his hand down toward the young woman

who had been his boyhood sweetheart. Tot Singleton glanced straight

into his eyes, seemed suddenly afraid of him, and ran swiftly homeward.

Wolfe faced his garrulous grandmother again and opened his lips to

speak, but she cut him off short.

"Now don't that beat the devil? She acted like as ef she was afeared

ye'd bite her head off, didn't she? Atwixt me and you, Little Buck,

wimmen is sawt o' strange critturs. Say, dad-burn it, you jest wait

here ontel I step back yander to the aidge o' the basin and git my

stick, which same I draped--it lays at that 'ar slim poplar thar--and

me and you we'll go to yore pap's house."

Her grandson rode to the foot of the Lost Trail, recovered the sourwood

staff and brought it to her. He dismounted then, and the two walked

toward the settlement of the Wolfes, the horse following at the end of

its rein.

"And so you're a real, shore-enough officer o' the United States law!"

proudly observed Granny Wolfe as they picked their way through a thin

copse of sumach.

"A deputy-sheriff, made that at the special request of the new Unaka

Lumber Company, of which I am general manager," said Wolfe. He went

on, "It was done in order that I might better protect the company's

interests in the mountains. What lucky fellow got Tot Singleton,

Granny?"

"Lumber was Colonel Mason's line; I might ha' knowed it'd be yore line,

too," muttered the old woman. "Hey? Now hain't Tot purty! She hain't a

bit like the rest o' the Singletons. Bless yore soul, Tot hain't never

married nobody! And her mighty nigh it as old as you, Little Buck.

Some says one thing about that, and some another; but me, I say it's

acause she han't never seed nobody 'at was quite as good as the boy who

beat the devil out o' Cat-Eye Mayfield and throwed him in the creek

for a-stickin' pine rawzum chewin' gum in her hair! Ye see, honey, a

mountain gyurl at sixteen is mighty nigh it a woman--why, I was married

at sixteen--whilst a boy at the same age is gen'ally a durned fool.

Hey?"

Wolfe laughed. "And what became of Cat-Eye Mayfield?"

"Him? Huh!" She turned up her thin old nose. "He still lives with his

pap up whar the two mountains j'ines at. And he still pesters Tot half

to death a-tryin' to git her to marry him. Tot she hates him wuss'n

the Old Scratch. And she's been a-havin' a sight o' trouble wi' her

heatherns, the same as I have wi' mine. She jest cain't stand the idee

o' her people a-fightin' like they does. Some says it was Grandpap Bill

Singleton 'at put it into her head; but me, I say it's jest natchelly

the goodness of her, Little Buck.

"I know you've come back to he'p yore people, Little Buck," Granny

Wolfe ran on. "You seed whar at yore duty laid. Well, we've got me and

you, and Tot and her grandpap, on the right side o' the fence. But

we'll have a awful time of it, shore. Yore pap he's turrible, turrible!

It's allus him who begins the fightin' atwixt us and the Singletons.

Them Singletons, 'cept Tot and her grandpap, the Prophet, is as quick

to fight as a wildcat; but they don't never take the fust step at it,

never."

[Illustration]

Twilight, soft and peaceful, had set in when the pair arrived at Old

Buck's low and rambling log cabin. Standing or sitting here and there

in the yard, all of them grave and silent, was a score of men of the

name Wolfe--one of their unwritten laws was that when an outsider

married a Wolfe he lost his surname and took that of his wife; it was

like that with the Singletons, too, that other wild, princely clan. The

house was packed with women and children; and they, also, were grave

and silent, save for one babe in arms that whimpered softly because its

mother wouldn't give it the clock for a plaything.

The returned son of the Wolfe chief threw his horse's rein over one

of the rotting gateposts, and entered the yard with his grandmother

limping close behind him.

"I'll bet ye cain't guess who this here feller is!" the old woman

chuckled--and told them in the same breath. "It's Little Buck!"

Little Buck had been recognized already. The clan favored him with one

quick, sharp glance. There was no other demonstration just then.

Young Wolfe stopped before the doorstep, on which his huge, gaunt

father sat as still as a stone image. Old Buck's elbows rested on his

knees; his bearded chin was almost hidden in his great, knotty hands.

The son who had been named for him saw that a tiny streak of dried

blood ran from a wound somewhere under his left shirtsleeve straight to

the point of his left little finger.

Then the man of the officer's shield put out his hand and said

cordially, "How are you, father?"

The clan leader seemed not to have heard. The silence became

oppressive. Little Buck Wolfe's lips quivered, and he saw his father

dimly. Granny Wolfe made a choking sound in her leathery throat, and

raised her sourwood staff threateningly.

"Buck Wolfe, you old fool," clipped her quick tongue, "you git right up

from thar and shake hands wi' yore own flesh and blood, him 'at is a

credit to you and me and every other Wolfe 'at ever slapped the face

o' the earth wi' a shoe-bottom."

The stern old mountaineer did not even change his stare.

"How are you, father?" again.

Wolfe the elder suddenly leaped to his feet, seized Little Buck's hand

and wrung it savagely, and growled, "I'm all right, damn it; how're

you?"

"All right," very quietly. Little Buck's face had brightened.

His mother, who never dared to speak ahead of her iron-hearted husband,

came out to meet him then. He kissed her reverently on the forehead,

and it brought to her mind an avalanche of memories of happier days;

she stole hurriedly back into the cabin, in order that the menfolk

might not see signs of the weakness that had come over her. Her son

began a round of handshaking with his kinsmen. The ice was broken.

"Nath," bellowed the old clan leader, "you bring him a chair out here!

The' hain't no room in the house; the wommen and young'uns is as

thick in thar as fiddlers in Tophet. Set the chair so's he can lean

back ag'in the wall and rest hisself, Nath. And bring me that 'ar jug

o' yaller cawn licker out o' the cubb'ard, too, Nath--the visitor

licker. Boy," to Little Buck, "ye'll have to look over my cussfired

onperliteness, I reckon. I've been so cussfired mad all day 'at my dang

breath would wilt fullgrown pizen-vine."

He dropped back to the doorstep. A few seconds later Little Buck

accepted the chair his big and bearded brother Nathan brought for him.

Old Buck then drew the corncob stopper from a one-gallon jug with his

teeth, and held the jug toward his fifth son. The latter refused it

courteously, and it was not pressed upon him. He saw Nathan smile good

humoredly.

"Mebbe you're sawt o' like me," said Nathan, as he passed the jug to

his Cousin John Ike. "I got on a rip-roarin' big dido last summer--I

was so loaded I wouldn't ha' knowed a lightnin'rod agent from a beauty

doctor. Whilst I was in that glorious fix, I drunk a bottle o' hawg

cholery medicine by mistake, and so I jest hain't had no hankerin'

'atter licker sence."

This elicited a low rumble of laughter. The earthenware receptacle went

around, and was returned to Old Buck almost empty. Old Buck raised it

to a level with his eyes, looked toward Little Buck, and drawled the

only toast he knew.

"'Here's to you, as good as you are, and to me, as bad as I am; and as

bad as I am, and as good as you are, I'm as good as you are, as bad as

I am!'"

Young Wolfe only smiled. Nathan responded for him, "Drink hearty."

Old Buck went on. "When a feller can say that 'ar toast straight, he

natchelly hain't loaded. I don't never 'low none o' my people to git

loaded. I tests 'em by that toast; and ef they cain't say it straight,

I thrashes 'em. I thrashed Nath atter he'd got over his dido and his

mistake last summer. Ax him, ef ye don't believe it."

Nathan pulled at his silky black beard, grinned, and changed the

subject, "What'n Tophet brung ye back, Little Buck?" he asked.

The man addressed swept the half-circle before him with his eyes. They

were all smiling upon him now, and he was glad indeed to note that they

were disposed to be so friendly. He moistened his lips and began.

"I decided some little time ago to come back. I had heard, through

Oliver, about----"

"How's Oliver?" broke in his father.

"Oliver's all right. I had heard, through Oliver, about the fighting,

and I wanted to see----"

"You say Oliver he's all right?" interrupted his mother, who now stood

in the doorway.

"Absolutely. The fighting didn't seem worth while to me, and I

wanted----"

"I'm shore glad pore Oliver he's all right," said Oliver Wolfe's wife.

[Illustration]

"----To see if I could do anything to stop it," Little Buck pursued

doggedly. "When I was ready to start out here, I learned that the

Thorntons, some of whom have owned the basin land since the days of

the old North Carolina land grant, were about to sell out to some

cattlemen, who wanted the basin for grazing purposes. I investigated,

and found out that the cattlemen hadn't offered a very good price

because of the trouble they expected to have with the Wolfes and

Singletons----"

"Them cattlemen," his father cut in grimly, "had right good hoss sense."

"Well, I knew the basin better than any of them, and I knew the coves

of the inner sides of the two mountains were filled with virgin white

oak and yellow poplar, timber without a peer in the world. I organized

a company--lumber was Colonel Mason's line, you know, and it's mine,

also--and we bought both timber and land from mountain's crest to

mountain's crest at a very reasonable figure. Then we ordered machinery

for a big sawmill, a geared locomotive and cars, and enough light steel

rails to run a narrow-gauge road over the six miles that lie between

this point and the new C. C. & O. Railway. Everything is in our favor.

The logging is all either down grade or on a level; there never was a

finer location for a mill and yards than can be had here in the basin;

and the little railroad can follow the creek all the way down to the C.

C. & O."

A number of the faces before him had hardened. He rose; it was like him

to meet the adverse on his feet.

"But I haven't told you the best of it," he went on convincingly. "I

have an agreement with the other members of the company by which I am

to have any of the land that I may want, when the sawing is done, at

two dollars an acre, and I'm willing to pass it on to you at the same

price; also, I am willing to give you all work at good wages. I say I'm

willing; I mean that I'm anxious. It's for you, my own people, that I'm

doing--what I'm doing.

"I want to see every Wolfe by name living in his own comfortable

cottage home, on his own little farm, here in Wolfe's Basin. I want us

to have a school for the children, a little church, and a post office.

I want us to have an ideal community here in this, one of the finest

spots on the Almighty's earth. If you'll all stick to me, we'll have

it. Now, men, I want to know who's going to stick?"

The eyes of all were turned upon Old Buck Wolfe. When he spoke, he

would speak for the others. He sat with his shaggy head bent, a huge

and actionless figure in the deepening dusk.

"Ef we don't fall in wi' yore idee, then what?" he asked, without

raising his head.

"It's like this," Little Buck told him in a very businesslike voice:

"my foster-parents, the Masons, sold every dollars' worth of property

they had--except their home, and they even mortgaged that as heavily as

it would stand--to get money enough to back me up, such was their faith

in me. I've given them my promise that they shan't lose a single penny.

If I don't get your help, I--I'll have to develop the timber interest

without it. But I want your help!"

"Son," and the stern old mountaineer sat up straight, "onless the'

happens to be somethin' ahind of it that I cain't yit see, we're all

with ye, lock, stock, ramrod, barrel, and sights!"

"And I say God bless ye, Buck Wolfe!" cried a creaking, but happy old

voice from behind him. "Nath, run to my house and let my little dawg

out; he's been shet up all day, pore little devil."

Before he went in to super, the Arnold Mason that was exacted an

ironclad promise from his father. Old Buck gave his word that, no

matter what might happen, the Wolfes would nevermore take the first

step in a fight with the Singletons.

The young general manager of the newly organized Unaka Lumber Company

refused the visitor-bed that night, and crept up to his boyhood bed in

the loft. His dreams were filled with dazzlingly pretty women who kept

giving him back diamond rings.

IV

Shortly after daybreak on the following morning, Little Buck Wolfe

woke, sat up, reached for his clothing--and thought of Tot Singleton.

He kept thinking of her. He caught himself saying aloud as he drew on

his boots that she would never have turned him down because he had a

brother in the county's chain-gang. Why, Tot would have clung to him

but the closer on that account!

He meant to spend the morning in looking over the central part of the

basin, where the big sawmill was to be built. After breakfast was over,

he talked with his father for an hour; then he set out up the creek, on

foot and alone.

When he came in sight of the gnarled old willow that shaded the

sand-bar, he halted very suddenly. Sitting at the base of the tree

was Tot! Her head was bent low, and there was an indescribable air of

loneliness about her. He stood there and watched her thoughtfully for a

full minute. She did not move even a finger.

[Illustration]

He had reached a point behind a clump of blooming laurel a dozen paces

from her when she lifted her head. But she didn't look toward him. She

went to dreaming again, and he was saddened by the signs of unhappiness

he saw on her countenance.

Just when he was about to make his presence known to her, an angular,

slouching figure stepped before her from the bushes beyond. The

newcomer was dressed in run-over cowhide boots, blue denim trousers

baggy at the knees and held in place by a pair of homemade suspenders,

a striped cotton shirt without buttons, and a worn black hat with

its rim pinned up desperado fashion in front. His black eyes were

lustreless, opaque, and uncanny. His thin lips were twisted in a smile

that was decidedly unpleasant.

"Hi thar, Tot!" he sneered. "Waitin' here fo' that 'ar town smarty,

like ye used to, I reckon; hain't ye?"

Wolfe's strong, smooth face lost a part of its healthy color. Tot made

no reply; it seemed almost that she did not know that Mayfield, her

tormentor, was there.

"He throwed me in the creek oncet," Mayfield went on, "but he cain't do

it now. I was jest a boy then. I'm a man now. I wisht he'd come along

and try it ag'in!"

At last the young woman gave him her attention.

"Little Buck was a boy then, too," she said; "and he wasn't no bigger'n

you was, neither. And he's a man now, too--you bet."

"I jest wisht he'd happen along----"

Wolfe had stepped from behind the clump of laurel, and Cat-Eye Mayfield

had seen him.

"Well, Cat-Eye," Little Buck said evenly, "you've got your wish."

Mayfield's manner became one of defiance, bitterness, and desperation.

He took from a pocket in his blue denim trousers a lump of sticky pine

resin wrapped in a green poplar leaf; he threw the leaf aside, and

in one quick movement deliberately pressed the resin deep into Tot

Singleton's copper-colored hair!

And Tot, her blue eyes glowing and triumphant, had not lifted a hand to

prevent it.

The mountain blood leaped madly in the heart of Little Buck Wolfe. He

rushed at Mayfield like an enraged panther. His blows, the blows of a

primitive man, fell upon Mayfield's sallow face like the pounding of a

riveting-hammer, completely stunning him. Then he gathered the angular

body up in his arms, bore it across the bar of sand, and hurled it into

the water--just as he had done on that red-letter day of his boyhood.

Mayfield crawled sullenly out on the other side, gave the man who had

whipped him a look of poisonous black hate, and slouched off up the

creek's bank. Wolfe watched him until he was a good hundred yards away

to see that he did not find a repeating rifle somewhere in the bushes;

then he turned toward Tot.

In another moment he was standing face to face with her--smiling,

blushing, finely handsome, barefooted Tot Singleton. He realized that

the entire repetition of the little drama of his youth lacked but the

climax--a kiss from Tot as a reward for his gallantry. She was looking

straight into his eyes. Her slender, sunburned hands crept slowly to

his shoulders. She stood on her toes, lifted her lips, and offered him

his reward.

For she had no way of knowing that he had outgrown their juvenile

affair; that he was for the present heart-broken because of the

shallowness of another woman. He had fought for her, and he never could

have made a stronger declaration that he still cared for her--it is a

law of the cave. Besides, if he hadn't come there to meet her, as of

old, why had he come?

Wolfe was not without chivalry. He could not strike down, like an

assassin, the glory of her beautiful eyes; it was a glory that awed

him, that could have come into being only after the longing, and the

faith, and the waiting of years. He bent his head, and kissed her.

But he knew it was unfair, and he blamed himself heavily. He caught her

hands as they were about to clasp at the back of his neck, and put them

gently from him. She stepped backward, wondering, somehow pitiful. A

disc of yellow sunlight fell through the branches of the willow, and

burnished the copper of her hair.

"What made you do that, Little Buck?" she asked in the tiniest of

voices.

He led her to the base of the tree, and they sat down together on the

pure white sand. It seemed better to tell her the whole truth, and he

told her the whole truth. Of every momentous thing that had occurred to

him since his going away with the Masons to be their son, he told her;

and he saw on her now slightly pale face more sympathy for him than

disappointment for herself. Some there are who are built for sacrifice,

but more there are who are not. Tot Singleton was.

When he had finished, he took from his pocket the ring that Alice Fair

had given back to him, and showed it to her. She merely glanced at it;

she knew nothing whatever of the value, intrinsic or sentimental, of

diamonds.

"Ef--ef I had that fool woman here," she said, her words fairly

throbbing, "I--I'd whip her!"

To Wolfe the ring was in a manner sacred because of the memories

associated with it; but it was a link that bound him to something that

was lost and gone, and he decided that he had best do away with that

link. Perhaps his inborn pride, the pride of the hillpeople, had its

influence in the matter--he smiled a mirthless little smile, and flung

the ring into the centre of the pool before him, the pool that used to

be eight feet in depth and now was only two.

[Illustration]

"And now I'll have to tell you good-by," he said, going to his feet.

"I start back to Johnsville at noon, and I've a good deal of looking

around to do here before I go."

Tot rose, said good-by to him, and went homeward.

A few rods down the creek, Wolfe came abruptly upon his father. The

iron-hearted old hillman's face was ashen under his beard, and his

black eyes were like two points of flame. He had followed his son. He

had seen the kiss, from his little distance, though he had heard none

of that which they said.

Old Buck waited until Tot Singleton was well out of hearing before he

spoke.

"Mr. Mason," he announced, "listen to me. I said we was all with ye ef

the' wasn't somethin' ahind of it 'at I couldn't see. The' is somethin'

ahind of it 'at I couldn't see--mixin' up wi' that lowdown Singleton

set. I promised I wouldn't start a fight with 'em no more, I know, and

I won't. The feud it's dead, as dead as hell. And so are you. To me,

you're dead. Acause I seed you kiss a lowdown Singleton."

"But----"

"Now le' me tell ye this here: you cain't never darken the door of a

Wolfe no more, and you cain't bring no railroad nor no sawmill into

this here basin ontel atter you've killed me. You've got my word fo'

that, and it's the word of a Wolfe!"

The younger man shook his head dejectedly. "Dad," he began, "you don't

know what you're talking about. I----"

"Hack it off right whar you're at!" Old Buck blazed. "I don't never

want to hear the sound o' yore voice no more as long as the breath o'

life's in me. You're dead, so far's I'm consarned."

The son tried hard to reason, tried harder to explain, all to no avail.

The unlettered giant would listen to nothing. It angered Little Buck in

spite of himself.

"I've given my word, just as you've given yours," he said spiritedly;

"and, as I'm a Wolfe, just as well as you are, I'll keep my word if I

live. The lumber track and the mill are coming, and it doesn't greatly

matter who likes it or who doesn't."

Old Buck stalked off. His son then regretted that he had lost his

temper.

V

Tot Singleton didn't go home just then. There was nothing she could do

at home. Her mother was a very strong, stout woman who didn't want any

"dreamin' gyurls a-piddlin'" in her household affairs; who sometimes

worked in the woods with an ax, or hoed corn, or helped to make a

run of whisky; and who lightened her daily burdens by the constant

whistling of old-fashioned hymns.

The young woman absentmindedly destroyed a hundred or so of black-eyed

mountain daisies by pulling off their defenseless heads between her

bare toes; then she went back to her shrine--it was just that to this

unspoiled creature who had been half child and half woman at sixteen

and was very nearly the same today.

She stood leaning against the body of the willow, and thought over

all that had happened there; looked at the marks Little Buck Wolfe's

high-laced boots had made in the sand, at the marks of the struggle

that had been so short and so one-sided. Soon she went to the edge of

the creek, and peered into the crystal water. He hadn't known about the

pool's being so shallow now, when he had thrown the ring into it.

She gathered up her calico skirts in one hand, waded in, found the

ring, and hastened back to the sand-bar.

Tot looked at it closely now. It sparkled so in the same yellow

disc of sunlight that had burnished the copper of her hair a little

while before; almost it hurt her eyes! Wonderment and something

very different from wonderment wrote their signs alternately on her

countenance. She pressed the ring on her engagement finger, and tried

to imagine that it was her own engagement ring; but the iron truth

wouldn't be forgotten even for a moment, and a wee smile of intense

hurt came to the lips that the sweetheart of those happy other days had

so recently kissed in so chivalrous a manner.

When she tried to get the ring off, it wouldn't come! Perhaps she

didn't try very hard. Anyway, she laughed a little to herself, and her

blue eyes were as bright as stars.

Tot Singleton went slowly up the bank of the creek, going homeward by

instinct rather than by design. And she had not covered half of the

mile when she met her father and the slouching young man they called

Cat-Eye, both of whom were armed with rifles.

[Illustration]

With a little gasp, she stopped suddenly and hid her left hand behind

her. Her father was very angry, angrier than she had ever seen him

before; she knew it the moment she saw his bearded face. It was all

plain to her immediately. Mayfield had told her father that she had met

one of the hated Wolfes halfway for the purpose of making love. Her

face whitened with scorn.

"Well?" she asked.

"Le's see what ye've got on that 'ar third finger o' yore left hand,

Louisiany," demanded Alex Singleton, slipping the butt of his repeater

to the ground.

Tot remembered that she had been watching the changing colors of the

stone when they came upon her. She stared silently and defiantly, and

made no move toward obedience.

"It's his'n, that 'ar ring," frowned Mayfield. "He----"

"You shet yore snaky mouth!" Tot interrupted desperately.

"Le's see it, Louisiany!" Old Singleton's voice trembled now.

Still no move whatever from the young woman. The Singleton chief

stepped to her, caught her left forearm in his big and sinewy hand, and

brought the shining stone up near his eyes by force. The clear, pure

beauty of the diamond held his attention for a few seconds; then he

threw his daughter's arm from him roughly, as though the bare touch of

it were a contamination.

"Take it off!" he blared.

"I--I cain't git it off!" cried Tot, a pink splotch in either of her

cheeks.

"Then cut yore finger off!"

Cat-Eye Mayfield chuckled, and it maddened Tot Singleton.

"I don't want it off!" she declared.

The old mountaineer shot upward two inches. "You--you say you don't

want it off?" he roared. "You say you don't _want_ it off? By the

Etarnal, you shain't never take that 'ar thing into no house o' mine as

long as ye live! You're the only gyrul I got, but I'd ruther bury ye,

'an to see ye wi' that 'ar damned thing on yore finger!"

Being her father's daughter, Tot also straightened. She, too, could be

obstinate. She pushed the ring a little farther up. Her voice was low

and pinched.

"Ef you had ha' come to me and said, 'Louisiany, honey, I'd ruther ye

wouldn't wear that,' I'd shorely ha' took it off don't matter how much

trouble it was to me. But you a-sayin' what ye said, and the way ye

said it, with Cat-Eye thar all a-grinnin' and a-gloatin'--well, pap, I

shorely wouldn't be no kin to you ef I was to take it off now."

"All right. You cain't never darken the door o' none o' yore people no

more," decreed Alex Singleton, shaking with a great rage. "Any o' yore

kin 'at harbors ye will shore haf to reckon wi' me, and I'm a hard man

to reckon with--you know that."

"I hain't a-goin' to take it off."

"All right!"

Old Singleton turned upon his heel with almost military precision,

jerked his rifle into the hollow of his arm and strode away.

When he had gone, Cat-Eye Mayfield smirked and gave an exhibition of

miserably poor judgment by trying to take Tot's hand. Tot struck him

across the cheek so hard that her fingers left purplish red bars under

the sunburn of his skin. For it was because of him that she was cast

out, homeless, without a place to lay her head.

"You'd better take yoreself away from here!" She clenched her hands

and stamped one little foot. "You shorely better had! I'm done wi'

you a-taggin' atter me, you--you sneakin' old rattlesnake of a

tattle-teller! I wouldn't marry you to save yore life and mine, too.

And this is the last time I'm a-goin' to take the trouble o' tellin'

ye, Cat-Eye. Git."

Mayfield quailed before the fire of her finely glittering eyes. He took

a few steps backward, watching her as though he feared she would spring

upon him and rend his loosely knit body to pieces; then he turned and

went straight toward the foot of Lost Trail Mountain. After he had gone

a hundred yards, Tot saw him make a careful examination of his rifle.

Now one doesn't examine a gun like that when he means to shoot

squirrels, not when he knows already that the gun is loaded and in

order. Tot Singleton fell upon the idea that Cat-Eye Mayfield meant

to watch the gate for Little Buck Wolfe, and shoot him from ambush.

Mayfield was as unscrupulous a man as ever drew life's breath, and this

was just the thing for him to do under the circumstances, she knew.

And Little Buck would start for Johnsville at noon!

[Illustration]

After having searched the central part of the basin in vain, she

decided that to protect him from the danger would be more sensible than

to try to warn him of it. Of course, she couldn't go to the Wolfes'

settlement. Besides, there was a strong chance of his being killed

while trying to protect himself. In another moment she was running hard

toward the nearest cabin, which was Grandpap Singleton's, and which,

she thanked whatever gods there were, was not more than a quarter of a

mile away; and she kept well to cover, in order that her irate father

might not see her.

When she burst into the poor little house, the white-headed,

white-bearded old hillman was poking the embers in the wide stone

fireplace for a baked potato; he, like Granny Wolfe, lived alone and

did for himself because he didn't want to be in the way. He looked

around and slowly straightened his lean figure, and the fire-blackened

hickory stick fell clattering from his unsteady hand.

"Tot Singleton," he demanded anxiously, "what in the name o' Fiddlin'

Bob Taylor is the matter o' you?"

"I want yore old rifle, Grandpap," panted Tot.

"Now jest what're you a-plannin' to shoot wi' my old rifle, I'd like to

know?"

"A rattlesnake--mebbe."

"A rattlesnake--mebbe! Heh! Take the rifle out o' the rack up thar over

the mantel." He motioned toward it. "My pore old arms is so stiff and

screaky wi' the rheumatiz 'at I cain't hardly reach up far enough fo'

to scratch my pore old head no more."

His granddaughter stood on her bare toes and took down the

long-barreled Lancaster muzzle-loader. She ignored the powderhorn and

leathern bullet-pouch the Prophet had taken from a peg in the log wall

and was holding out to her. The one load that was in the rifle would be

enough. Tot, like the rest of the Singletons, didn't miss.

But as she turned toward the door, her grandfather caught her by an arm

and held her firmly. His suspicions were at work.

"Wait, Tot, honey," he said. "You've got to tell me about it fust. It

hain't no common rattler you're a-goin' to shoot--mebbe!"

She had been afraid to let him know, because of his strict

religiousness. The earnest pleading, the deep love for her in his old

eyes, now urged her to confide in him. She told it in a few words, for

there was precious little time to be wasted.

"And so he's come back here to save his people, Little Buck has."

Grandpap Singleton seemed very much affected. "I tell ye, Tot, honey,

they needs him, as shorely as you're a foot high. Well, we'll he'p him

ef we can. Shorely, a man ort to believe in a-fightin' fo' the right as

well as prayin' for it. Heh?"

The Prophet certainly was not in one of his wandering fits now. He

caught up a worn felt hat and pulled it low on his white head, and took

the rifle masterfully from Tot's hands.

"Come wi' me," he ordered, almost with the snap of youth.

The pair of them hurried across the little vegetable plot, and were

soon swallowed up by the trees and laurels of the mountainside.

"Ef the's any killin' to be done," muttered the aged mountaineer, "I'll

do it myself. You're young, Tot, honey, whilst I'm as old, mighty nigh

it, as Methusalem's house cat. But I can yit see how to shoot purty

tol'able straight. Heh! Do ye know what they used to call me fo' a

nickname when I was a young man? 'Cracker,' that's what. Acause I was a

crack shot. It was said I was the man who invented shootin' squirrels

in the middle o' the eye!"

Considering that he had long been a sufferer from rheumatism, that

scourge of the aged, the pace that Grandpap Singleton set and kept was

truly surprising.

When they drew up stealthily behind a scrubby oak and peered down the

Lost Trail's side of Devil's Gate, they saw just what they had expected

to see. Crouched above a stone the size of a barrel, on which lay his

repeating rifle on its side, was Cat-Eye Mayfield, motionless, waiting

in a diabolical patience.

"We've got to ketch him mighty nigh in the act itself," whispered

Grandpap Singleton, "so's the'll be enough real proof to send him to

jail. We hain't got no real proof as yit, ye know, Tot. We'll jest wait

here ontel he picks up his rifle, which same he'll do when Little Buck

comes in sight, and 'en we'll make him put up his hands and call Little

Buck up to arrest him. Heh? Shorely. He's a-plannin' to let Little Buck

have it when he slows his hoss to ford the creek down thar."

Tot kept a watch on the trail below, which lay in plain view before

her for several hundred yards. A few silent minutes went by; then she

motioned to her kinsman to get ready.

[Illustration]

She saw him kneel, lay the long barrel across a moss-covered stone,

rest one shoulder against the scrubby oak's body, and bend his head

until his right cheek touched the rifle's stock. After he had trained

the old weapon properly, he raised his white head and turned his eyes

upward without spoiling his aim; and Tot heard him speak in the lowest

of undertones:

"Lord, ef I haf to do it, You'll onderstand, won't Ye? And ef I am

in the wrong, which I'm purty shore I hain't, I ax Ye to fo'give me.

Aymen."

The young woman wiped a dimness from her blue eyes, and looked toward

the trail again. She bent and whispered nervously:

"He's a-comin' fast. He hain't more'n a hundred steps from the Gate.

Now you watch Cat-Eye Mayfield, Grandpap Singleton, and don't you let

him k-k-kill Little Buck!"

"You leave it to me!"

Mayfield picked up his rifle, drew the hammer back, and began to settle

himself like a cat settling for a spring.

"Drap that 'ar gun, Cat-Eye!" cried Grandpap Singleton.

Tot pulled aside a laurel branch, in order that the would-be assassin

might see the frowning muzzle that bore upon him. Mayfield was in no

haste to turn his sallow face toward them; he looked at them only long

enough to see who they were, and did not drop his rifle. Perhaps it was

because he did not believe the religious old man would shoot; perhaps

it was because his thirst for revenge was so great at that moment that

his narrow mind had in it no room for any other thought.

"Drap that rifle, Cat-Eye!" Grandpap Singleton cried again.

Still Mayfield did not obey. The horseman was now almost to the ford,

and reining in. Mayfield's round head seemed to sink halfway into his

shoulders--he began to look along the sights.

"Shoot!" Tot urged frantically.

The old Lancaster cracked like a giant's whip. Cat-Eye Mayfield

dropped his rifle now. He turned a dumfounded, ashen face toward the

two Singletons, and babbled something unintelligible. Then--although

the bullet had only passed through the upper part of his right arm,

thanks either to Providence or to a dimness in the old mountaineer's

eyes--Mayfield sank to the stones. The sight of his own blood had made

him limp.

The Prophet rose unsteadily. The strain on his feeble mind was telling.

He stretched wide his lean arms, and the bright sun threw his shadow

down the incline in the form of an inverted cross.

He called to the man in the Gate, "Come up here, Little Buck Wolfe,"

thickly, "and arrest me fo' mudder!"

VI

At the sound of the shot, Wolfe looked up quickly. He saw the gaunt

old man go tottering to his feet, saw Tot standing with her hands

clutching at her calico dress below her throat; but because of the

creek's dashing he did not hear the Prophet's agonized cry. Wolfe

dismounted, fastened his horse's reins to a sapling, and hurried up the

rocky steep.

The young woman and her grandparent had come down to where Mayfield lay

groaning.

"He hain't dead," said Tot. "He's jest bad hurt. And you'd shore better

take him along to town with ye, Little Buck, and jail him, ef ye don't

want to be ambushed some other time."

Poor old Grandpap Singleton fell to his knees beside the man he had

shot. "He hain't dead!" he rejoiced. "He hain't dead!" His hands were

clasped against his hollow breast. His joy was even more pathetic than

his grief had been before it.

Wolfe understood fully. He touched the now quiet figure on the ground

with the toe of his boot.

"Get up!" he ordered.

Mayfield rose, his right arm hanging limp at his side. Wolfe ripped

the shirtsleeve from the injured member, folded one of his own white

handkerchiefs and placed it over the wound, and used the torn-out

sleeve for a bandage. Mayfield, who was fast recovering from his fit

of weakness, watched every move of the deft, strong fingers with old

hatred in his lusterless, uncanny eyes.

[Illustration]

The first-aid work was barely finished when the high-pitched voice of

Granny Wolfe came from a point a few rods above:

"La, la, la! And so ye got him, durn him, did ye, Grandpap Bill

Singleton!"

She limped down to them, her little dog, Wag, happy at her heels.

"Ye needn't to mind a-tellin' me about it, Bill Singleton," she

chattered, "a-cause I already know, me a-bein' a good guesser. And so

the rawzum-chawin' devil's pup--was a goin' to layway Little Buck, was

he? You, Cat-Eye Mayfield, quit that a-lookin' at me like as ef ye

could bite my whole head off."

She turned toward her grandson, who greeted her gravely.

"I tried to find you before I left," he said, and then told her of his

father's change of heart.

"Consarn his old fool hide!" the old woman exploded.

Wolfe picked up Mayfield's rifle, threw the loaded cartridge out of the

chamber, and let the hammer down carefully. Then he held the weapon out

toward Tot Singleton.

"Take that home with you," he requested. "Mayfield can get it when he

comes back."

Tot didn't take the rifle. Her lower lip began to quiver, and she

looked away. "But I cain't never go home no more, Little Buck," she

murmured.

"You can't go home!" he exclaimed in amazement.

She told him haltingly why. A very little smile curled Wolfe's mouth at

the corners.

"So you, too, are an outcast," he said, half-sympathetically,

half-resentfully. "But don't feel so badly about it! We always have our

compensations, little girl. I wonder if--will you go along with me,

Tot?"

She answered simply, "I'd go anywhar with you."

Grandpap Singleton took the rifle. Granny Wolfe addressed her kinsman:

"Ef you're a-goin' to town, you'd shore better start. I seed yore pap's

old blue-tailed hen a-settin' on the fence a-pickin' her feathers this

mornin', and I've heerd two treefrogs a-hollerin', and them's all good

signs o' rain."

Wolfe shook hands with the two old people, and escorted his prisoner

and her who had been his boyhood sweetheart down to the Gate trail,

where his horse stood pawing the black earth impatiently.

"Get in the saddle, Cat-Eye," he said. "You're not able to walk."

"I hain't a-goin' to Johnsville--" Mayfield began, when Wolfe tapped

his deputy's badge with a forefinger and cut in, "Get in the saddle!"

He pushed his coat back far enough to reveal the butt of a revolver

that the high sheriff had found for him and urged him to wear.

Mayfield obeyed awkwardly and ungraciously. With Tot Singleton walking

trustfully beside him, Wolfe led the horse down the winding Gate trail,

which soon entered a dark green tunnel formed of laurel, giant ferns,

and hemlock branches.

When they had put three miles behind them, Wolfe said to his companion,

"I suppose you've guessed where I'm taking you."

"Yes," with a sidewise glance of admiration at his clearcut profile.

"You're a-takin' me to them folks who 'dopted you, over in town. And ef

they can make me over into the same sawt they made you into, I--I'll

swaller all o' my feelin's ag'inst bein' a charity objeck, and he'p 'em

all I can."

"That's the spirit!" he said with a good deal of enthusiasm. "You stick

to that!"

[Illustration]

Wolfe hired a light vehicle at the first farmhouse, and they reached

quiet, lazy Johnsville an hour after the fall of darkness. It was a

fine, starry night; contrary to Granny Wolfe's prediction, it hadn't

rained. They went straight to the big, old-fashioned white house of the

Masons, which lifted its gables so proudly above its setting of maples

that one was inclined to wonder whether it wasn't scoffing at the heavy

mortgage that was upon it!

The colonel and his wife were sitting on the unlighted veranda. He was

tall, straight, gallant, courteous. She was rather little, gentle,

sweet, a born mother who had never had any children. They were of the

old South.

"Father," said the adopted son, as the trio reached the foot of the

veranda steps, "here's a man with a pretty bad arm. Call Doctor Rice,

won't you?"

Colonel Mason didn't wait to ask questions. He ran toward the phone,

switching on the veranda lights as he passed through the hallway. The

trio walked up the steps. Tot Singleton blinked in the strange white

glow that shone from two frosted globes on the veranda ceiling. Cat-Eye

Mayfield glared like an animal in a corner. Wolfe approached Mrs.

Mason, who was at the same time approaching him.

"This is Miss Singleton, mother," he said. "I--I thought you wouldn't

mind caring for her a little while as you cared for me for so long."

The colonel's little wife turned to Alex Singleton's daughter, took

her hands, bent forward and kissed her on the brow. Tot stared; then a

tear traced a crooked line down the road-dust of either cheek. No other

woman had ever kissed her, not even her own stout, whistling mother,

that she remembered. In that instant her whole weary, fiery mountain

heart gave itself in everlasting love and devotion to Mrs. Mason.

"Let's go into the house, dear," softly said the older woman.

They went in. The colonel hastened back to the veranda.

"Rice is coming," he announced. To Mayfield, "Please sit down, sir."

The three of them sat down. The colonel slyly studied the wounded man's

face, and he found it interesting. Soon the doctor arrived.

Rice dressed the hillman's arm in record time, and was paid on the spot

for his services--by the young fellow he had always known as Arnold

Mason. Wolfe then went with Mayfield into the dining room, where they

had supper. Immediately after they had finished the meal, Mayfield was

shown to a bedroom upstairs and in the back half of the house.

"Don't bother to run away," and Wolfe smiled a very pleasant smile.

"You may go home tomorrow. I won't give you any trouble over trying to

pot me; you see, I understand fully just how hard a prison term is for

any mountain man! You won't try to do me harm in the future, will you?

I want you to promise me that."

"Shore," Mayfield nodded. "I promise. You're a good feller, Little

Buck, a dang good feller."

Mayfield had expected anything but mercy. But he was not too bewildered

to grind his teeth and fling a vile, whispered curse at the door when

Wolfe closed it behind him.

When Wolfe went back to the veranda, the lights had been cut off to

keep away a swarm of annoying summer beetles. He saw that the colonel

and a slender figure in white sat in rockers near the front steps.

"Miss Singleton--who wants me to call her Tot, like everybody else

does--" began Colonel Mason, "has told me about the difficulties you

had and--er, expect to have. It looks bad, Arnold; there's no denying

it. You can't arrest and imprison your own people, of course. Frankly,

I don't quite see how you're going to manage it, son."

Wolfe stepped to the veranda post and put his back to it.

"You've always believed in me," he said earnestly. "I want you to

continue to believe in me. I'm not to the barrier yet. There are

six miles of narrow-gauge road to be built before the barrier is

reached--the Devil's Gate, you know. No use worrying over things in the

distance, father, eh? This is what I've got to do--when I get to the

barrier, I'll cross it, or go under it, around it, or through it. I

don't know how. I know only that it must be done."

"By George, sir!" The colonel brought a hand down on his knee for

emphasis. "Of course, I'll keep faith in you! That pass--the Devil's

Gate--was beautifully named, wasn't it? But there's one thing, Arnold,

I must ask you to remember. That your life is of more value to us,

infinitely, than our money. Don't forget it, son."

There followed a few minutes of silence save for the night song of

a mocking bird somewhere in the maples. Then Tot Singleton, who now

wore shoes and stockings and a white dress that Mrs. Mason had found

for her, sat up straight in her chair and addressed the dimly-shining

officer's shield.

"Let me tell you, Little Buck," she said, "you'll shorely wish you'd

put Cat-Eye Mayfield in jail the minute you got to town. I'd bet my

life ag'in a safety-pin 'at Cat-Eye Mayfield ain't in the house right

now. As long as he can go whar he pleases, yore life ain't wo'th

nothin'. I tell you, after you've done what you've done tonight fo'

him, he'd foller you to the bottomest hole in Tophet to git to shoot

you in the back. Hate you? Why, he's hated you ever sence he can

rickollect. It's all the' is to him, that hate fo' you. As Grandpap

Singleton says, the sourest vinegar in the world is made out o'

molasses--a-meanin', o' course, hate made out o' l-love. Cat-Eye thinks

he l-loves me, y' know----"

If the lights had been on, they would have seen that she was blushing

terribly; she had made a bad mess, she thought, of telling them how it

was.

The last word had barely left her lips when there came from the velvety

darkness of the lawn the voice of an eavesdropper, a snake, Mayfield

himself, who had stolen out by way of the back stairs:

"Ef ever she told the truth in all o' her borned days, Little Buck

Wolfe, she told it then. Ye might as well make yore fun'ral 'rangements

afore ye come into the hills ag'in, acause I'll certainly git you!"

[Illustration]

Wolfe ran down the steps and disappeared in the blackness. Colonel

Mason flashed on the veranda lights, and brought out a shotgun. But

Mayfield and the night were too closely akin, and they failed to catch

even a glimpse of him.

"I have always held out," muttered the colonel, when they had again

gathered on the veranda, "that there was no man without a little that

was good somewhere in his make-up. I admit now that I was mistaken."

Little Mrs. Mason came out then. She put a hand on Tot's arm.

"I've got a room ready for you upstairs," she said. "Would you like to

go to bed now? You must be pretty tired."

"Yes'm," Tot replied absentmindedly.

She displayed no interest whatever in the beautiful blue-and-white

bedroom that the good woman at her side told her to consider her own.

She barely noticed the dainty night-dress that Mrs. Mason took from a

drawer and hung across the back of a chair for her. Wondering at her

sudden abstraction, the colonel's wife smiled a gentle, "Good night, my

dear!" and left her to herself.

Tot Singleton was thinking of Mayfield. She had long ago given up

trying to stop hating him; he wouldn't let her stop hating him. For

years he had dogged her like a shadow; she hadn't been able to go

anywhere, it seemed, without his following her. A thousand times he had

profaned the sacred spot under the whispering willow--with his feet,

with his voice, with his opaque and uncanny eyes, with his thoughts.

Over and over she had tried to insult him, in order that she might be

rid of him; but there was, apparently, nothing about him that could be

insulted. No, he wouldn't let her leave off hating him!

And now Mayfield was free again; free to wait in the laurels beside the

trail, or behind a stone above it, with his coward's soul red with the

spirit of murder, and a rifle in his hands.

Little Buck Wolfe would go to the mountains in the morning to bring

Mayfield back; he would be shot from ambush; the cost of his kindliness

and his fearlessness would be his life. She was absolutely sure of it,

and her conclusion was certainly not far-fetched. Well, she would save

Wolfe again. She was one of the very few persons in the world who could

approach Cat-Eye Mayfield, now that he knew the hand of the law was

against him, without great danger of being killed. She herself would

arrest Cat-Eye. If he didn't submit to arrest, she would--but he would

submit. It would be easy enough to find him. The mountains and their

dense forests were as an open book to her; no man of the Wolfes Basin

country knew them better.

To the outsider, the decision of this unlettered, but strong-souled

young daughter of the hills is perhaps rather startling. But to Tot

there was nothing so very extraordinary about it. To her, duty was

duty, and nothing more--or less.

When Mrs. Mason rapped lightly at the door of the blue-and-white

bedroom on the following morning, she received no response. She

opened the door and went in, and found the bed not only empty, but

undisturbed. Shortly afterward, the colonel's wife found that Tot's

calico dress was gone; and in its place lay the white garments and the

shoes and stockings that Tot had worn the evening before.

Mrs. Mason hurried downstairs and met Wolfe in the hallway. He seemed

anxious.

"Mother," his voice troubled, "when I woke this morning, my revolver

was gone from my holster, and the deputy shield from my coat. What do

you suppose became of them? Do you think Mayfield----?"

"I believe I can explain, Arnold," she interrupted breathlessly. "The

girl, too, is gone!"

"After Mayfield!" he cried.

"I have no doubt of it, Arnold. She probably thinks your officer badge

gives her plenty of authority!"

VII

There was a heavy step on the veranda. A big and poorly-dressed man,

wearing a sunburned black beard and carrying a rifle by its muzzle,

appeared on the threshold.

"Whar's my little gyurl?" he asked jerkily.

The colonel's wife looked with instant pity upon him. There was

something very forlorn about Alex Singleton, the repentant. His gaunt

and haggard face, his ragged clothing, his run-over cowhide boots, all

were covered with the dust of travel. Just under his eyes, which were

wide and hungry-looking, his cheeks were mottled faintly, and it was

chiefly by this pathetic little token that Mrs. Mason read the story

of his remorseful sorrow. He stared straight at her; he appeared to be

wholly unaware of the presence beside her of old Buck Wolfe's son.

"Whar is she at?" he asked again, this time almost in a whisper.

"She went back to the hills last night," Mrs. Mason answered kindly.

[Illustration]

"I'd ort to be shot fo' a-runnin' her off," muttered Alex Singleton. In

louder tones, "Might I ax ye fo' a big drink o' whisky, mis'?"

Mrs. Mason's eyes twinkled. "I think we have some. Sit down and wait,

and I'll go for it."

It was then that she noticed that his left shirtsleeve had been ripped

open to the shoulder; that a rawhide thong did service as a tourniquet

just above his left elbow; and that his left forearm, wrist and hand

were swollen and discolored.

"Copperhead bit me as I was a-creepin' through a fence jest outside

o' town," the mountaineer explained apologetically. "Got me afore I

knowed it was anywhar nigh me. That's what I wanted with a big drink o'

whisky, mis', it a-bein' good fo' snakebite."

"Oh, you must have Doctor Rice!" the little woman cried frightenedly.

Already she was fairly pushing him toward a veranda chair that Wolfe

had hurriedly provided; he sat down as obediently as a child would have

done. "Arnold, phone Doctor Rice----"

"But there's no time to be lost in waiting for Rice, mother," said

Wolfe. "Look at that arm! I can treat snakebite; I've got some

potassium permanganate that I bought to take to the hills with me----"

He ran to his bedroom and returned with a small bottle. Alex Singleton

rose angrily.

"I hain't a-goin' to let _you_ do it!" he declared.

"You'll have to," replied Wolfe. "You don't want to die, do you?"

"But thar's whisky----"

"Whisky," old Buck Wolfe's son interrupted, "is as bad as it is good.

It stimulates the heart action, but it spreads the poison through the

system rapidly. This permanganate--we just cut right through the marks

of the fangs with a knife; then we draw out as much poison as will

come; then we fill the wounds with this stuff, and pretty soon you'll

be as good as new. You see, you evidently got the tourniquet on quick,

which is a big thing."

"Me, a Singleton, and you, a Wolfe?" The mountain man was suffering

much. He was a stranger in a strange land, dazed and bewildered, and

heart-broken because of his treatment of his only daughter. He weakened.

"You'd do that fo' me, a Singleton? Ef you would, I hain't a-goin' to

be lowdown enough to keep ye from it. Yank out yore knife and cut the

whole danged arm off, Little Buck, ef ye want to!"

He held out the swollen, discolored hand. Wolfe took a sharp knife from

his pocket, and with it split the fang-marks two ways. With his mouth

he succeeded in drawing out some of the virulent yellow poison. After

that he filled the wounds with permanganate crystals. The colonel came

up and tried to help.

"We'll loosen your thong at intervals," smiled Wolfe. "There's some

poison in that arm that the permanganate won't reach, but it won't hurt

much if we let it into the circulation a little at a time. It's the

shock of the whole dose, you know, that kills."

Some hours later, the leader of the Singletons put out his good right

hand.

"Boy," he said with a great deal of feeling, "you've got one friend,

anyhow, which no time, nor no change, nor no thing on earth can ever

take away from ye. I want ye to shake wi' me, Little Buck."

They shook.

"Now will ye please tell me, ef ye know," Singleton went on, "how come

it Louisiany left here in the night?"

Wolfe told him briefly.

"Cat-Eye Mayfield!" growled the big hillman. "Well, I reckon I'm

a-goin' to haf to kill Cat-Eye sometime. Goodness knows I hates to do

it, but fo' pore little Louisiany I will, as shore as green apples. Le'

me tell ye this here, folks--thar's the lowdownest man 'at ever stuck a

boot-track on the face o' the world."

After two more hours, the rawhide thong was removed entirely.

Singleton's constitution was like iron. He rose, and took up his rifle

and hat.

"I guess I'll be a-movin' toward home," he drawled softly. "I feel good

enough to thrash my weight in wildcats now. I shore won't fo'git this."

"Better wait until tomorrow," advised the always hospitable colonel.

"I'll go with you," said Wolfe. "Tot may need help, you know. We'll

separate at the Gate, in order that my people----"

"No!" old Alex broke in stoutly. "You cain't go to the mountains now.

Mayfield would be plumb shore to snipe ye off, plum' shore. You must

stay here fo' three days, at least. I tell you, I knows jest edzactly

what I'm a-talkin' about, Little Buck."

"But he wouldn't have got away, if I hadn't been such a boob!" frowned

Wolfe. "It's up to me, as the saying is, to bring him back."

Singleton shook his head. "Oh, no! Ef I'm a-goin' to be yore friend,

you must le' me have my way about it. Don't be a-skeered but what

Louisiany can take blamed good keer o' herself. Cat-Eye, he wouldn't

hurt her, anyhow. He knows me too dang well to hurt her. And so good-by

to ye all!"

Half a minute later, he had left the house and was hurrying toward the

great, dim-blue ranges.

[Illustration]

The young general manager of the new Unaka Lumber Company began

immediately the building of his toy railroad. Before twilight of the

next day, more than a dozen tents had been staked on a level spot

near where Wolfes Creek flowed under the C. C. & O., and the mountain

air was filled with the songs of weary negro laborers. Early on the

following morning, under the supervision of a young foreman named

Weaver, the narrow roadbed began to creep toward the basin. The hills

everlastingly rang with the staccato of the axe, the keen tenor of the

saw, and the low bass thunder of exploding dynamite as tree after tree

and ledge after ledge of stone fell victims of the hand of progress.

Late in the afternoon of the day following, Wolfe left the work

entirely in charge of his foreman, and started to Johnsville for news.

No person had passed by way of the trail that led down the creek from

Devil's Gate, but those for whom he had been watching might possibly

have taken another trail.

He found no news awaiting him in Johnsville. Nothing more had been seen

or heard of the Singletons or of Mayfield. Wolfe feared that some evil

had befallen Tot. Before he went to bed that night, he decided that he

would be in the hills at daybreak on a search for her.

Colonel Mason wished to accompany his foster-son, but he awoke too

late. Whereupon he gallantly wagered his wife a silk dress against

a peach pie that he would overtake Arnold before he reached Devil's

Gate--and he won the peach pie.

VIII

A slender, barefooted feminine figure in a torn and bedraggled,

blue-dotted calico dress stood motionless behind the twisted body of a

wind-swept jackpine on the crest of a baby mountain miles from Wolfe's

Basin. Her face was thin from starving, and her coppery hair matted

and tangled, but in the depths of her blue eyes there was fire. An

Army-type revolver hung heavily from her right hand. Over her heart

shone an officer's shield. She was slyly watching the side of another

baby mountain, on the crest of which lay lightly the dying, golden

summer sun.

The yellow disc sank out of sight, and shadows began to thicken in the

valley before her. Still she stood motionless behind the wind-swept

pine, too full of her purpose to sit down and rest. Darkness came on

out of the east, and a little brown owl somewhere below her cried a

mournful welcome to it. A nighthawk cut the air over her head with its

knife-sharp wings; its shriek was like the dying note of a steamer's

siren. From far across the other mountain came the shrill sound of a

panther's scream, imitating the call of a woman in mortal distress.

Then there was silence, a deep and awesome silence. The earth, the sky,

and all between, formed one vast and hollow loneliness. But Tot did not

feel it. She herself was loneliness.

At last she sat down on the pine needles. Her weariness, the weariness

of long hours of tramping without food, of long vigils on mountain

tops, forced her to rest. What a game of hide-and-seek it had been!

Half a dozen times she had been almost upon him. His way of eluding her

was both uncanny and maddening. He had really seemed to be enjoying it!

Again the owl cried out; again the nighthawk shrieked; again the

panther screamed. And again did Tot Singleton pay no attention to the

gruesome trinity.

Some time later, she saw on the side of the other mountain a tiny point

of light. It brought a cold but triumphant smile to her lips. How sure

of himself he was! She rose, and began to move swiftly and noiselessly

down through the scrubby laurel and ivy, going as straight toward the

point of light as the slopes of the valley would allow.

[Illustration]

After nearly an hour, she divided a wall of rank green undergrowth

and stepped into a little, round patch of huckleberry bushes, in the

center of which was a small brushwood fire--and beyond the fire, eating

berries, his rifle lying across his knees, sat Cat-Eye Mayfield,

who also was pale and haggard. He looked up. His jaws stopped their

movement as though they had been that moment paralyzed. He stared at

her half-defiantly and half-reproachfully.

She went closer to him, the big revolver ready in her hand, her gaze

riveted on his.

"You're onder arrest fo' tryin' to kill Little Buck Wolfe," she said in

a low voice that carried the ring of ice. With the forefinger of her

left hand she pointed to the officer's shield that she wore over her

heart like a target and a dare.

"Ye don't say!" he sneered.

"But I do say!" she replied.

"Depity-Sheriff Tot Singleton!" grinned Mayfield.

"C'rect, sir!" boldly. "It's jest what I am. I'll haf to ax ye to pass

that 'ar rifle acrost to me, Mister Cat-Eye."

"Humph!" scornfully.

"Pass me that 'ar rifle, butt fust--pass it, quick!"

Mayfield saw, or imagined he saw, her finger tighten on the trigger. He

gave her the gun, butt first, reluctantly. She lifted it in her left

hand and brought it down hard on a stone, disabling the mechanism of

the breech. Mayfield muttered an oath and leaped to his feet, but the

revolver's muzzle held him off.

"You better hadn't!" she warned, her finger now so hard on the trigger

that the cylinder trembled. "I've got the whole United States ahind o'

me now, and I shore hain't afeared to shoot. Ef you think I am, try me

and see!"

The other prepared to play his last card. He had some faith in it.

He tucked his thumbs under his homemade suspenders, and cocked his

bullet-shaped head to one side.

"We've had a fine time a-playin' whoopy-hide, hain't we?" He tried to

laugh, and failed. "But it's all come to a show-down now, I reckon.

You've sp'iled it all; the fun's all over. Tot Singleton, you won't

want me to go to jail when I've told ye what I've got to tell ye!"

"Tell it!" impatiently.

"All right. Well," leered Mayfield, "you rickollect 'at time me and

yore pap went over to Shelton Laurel and stayed a week at the big

shootin'-match, sev'ral year ago? And you rickollect yore pap acted

pow'ful strange fo' a long time atter we'd got back? It was the talk o'

the whole Singleton tribe. You rickollect, Tot?"

"Yes. Shorely," she nodded. "Git the rest of it out o' ye quick."

"All right. Well, yore pap he killed a man named Mort Gibson over

thar," Cat-Eye Mayfield went on, "and I seed him do it. I was the only

witness. I'm the only pusson on earth 'at knows who done it--'ceptin'

yore pap. Take me to jail, and I'll shore tell who it was killed Mort

Gibson. Then yore pap he'll land in the penitenchy even ef he don't

hang!"

Tot Singleton saw light in a place that had been mysteriously dark to

her for years.

"So that," she cried, shaken hard, "is why pap never would make you

stop a-pesterin' me to marry you! He was afeard to make you mad, acause

he was afeard you'd tell! But," with fine scorn, "he knowed he could

trust me never to tie up to sech as you, o' course. Do ye reckon,

Cat-Eye Mayfield, they'd take yore word about the killin', and you in

jail?"

"Tumph! I'd jest tell 'em to ax yore pap about it, and he'd give

hisself away. He hain't got over it yit. It's nigh driv' him crazy."

It was all too true. Then the young woman's countenance took on an

expression that fascinated Mayfield because he couldn't begin to guess

what it meant.

"You turn yore back to me, quick!" she ordered.

The revolver threatened. The firelight gleamed on the deputy's badge

she wore. Mayfield lost faith in his last card. He turned his back to

Tot, and bent his head dejectedly. She stepped to him, gripped the

waistband of his blue denim trousers in her left hand, and shoved him

forward.

"Move on!" she said, bleakly but desperately, and he moved on. "Try

anything I don't like the looks of, and see ef I don't shoot--then you

cain't tell on pap. I--I've got the whole United States ahind o' me

now."

* * * * *

They reached the crest of a high and rugged mountain just before

daybreak. Tot decided to halt there and wait for the dawn to show her

the surrounding country, in order that she might get her bearings again.

When the gray light came, she found that the great pile of earth and

stone under her feet was the Big Blackfern, the eastern wall of Wolfe's

Basin!

"Listen, Cat-Eye," she said wearily. "This is what we're a-goin' to do.

We're a-goin' straight down the mountainside to the aidge o' the basin;

then we're a-goin' to sneak out to the right under cover o' the trees

ontel we're to the Gate. Anything about that you don't onderstand?"

"Yes," growled her prisoner, "I onderstand ye."

"Rickollect, ef you try to run, I'll shoot."

[Illustration]

She released her hold on his clothing, now that he no longer had

darkness for a friend. She followed him doggedly, fighting for strength

to keep on her feet. Before they were halfway to the basin's edge, she

was stumbling, and the trees were beginning to run grotesquely together

like drunken monsters, and there was in her eyes a light closely akin

to that of delirium. Mayfield knew that she soon would be completely

exhausted, and upon this he was depending for his escape. Now and

then he cast a sly glance over his shoulder, and with each succeeding

glimpse of her his countenance grew a degree less heavy.

When they had come to a point a hundred yards from the level ground of

the basin's bottom, Mayfield halted suddenly and began to stare ahead

of him. His captor thrust the muzzle of the revolver weakly against his

back. Still he didn't move. His immobility was like that of an evil

bird that a snake holds charmed.

"Go on!" mumbled Tot. "Go on!"

"Looky thar!" exclaimed Mayfield. He pointed.

"What is it?"

She saw that they were standing at the lower side of the family

burying-ground of the Wolfes.

"Thar!" Mayfield growled, pointing again.

At last she saw. "It was you," she gasped, "that done it!"

A thick, black mist was already settling down before her. She couldn't

see anything at all now. Mayfield seized the revolver and tore it

from her weakened grip. She made no attempt to recover it, for

nothing mattered; the universe had become one great, dark void; it

was finished. She staggered and fell prostrate, with her arms flung

out helplessly. There she lay quite still, with the officer's shield

pressed close to the earth and no more like a target, no more like a

dare.

In the basin below were two men, one of whom was mounted, who had been

watching with rising interest the progress of the pair down the rugged

slope of the Blackfern. They had recognized Tot and Mayfield only when

the latter-named halted suddenly and pointed; captor and captive had

come into plain view at that moment.

Colonel Mason uttered an exclamation that was half-oath, and spurred

his horse forward. The man on foot also was an elderly man, and he was

tired and worn from days and nights of fruitless searching through the

mountain wilderness. He thought that Mayfield had struck Tot down. He

choked back a sob and cried out a whole oath instead, and ran, not

toward his daughter, his one little girl, but after Cat-Eye Mayfield.

The colonel dismounted and with infinite tenderness gathered Tot's limp

body up from the new mound of black earth on which it had fallen. He

shook his head sorrowfully, regretfully, at sight of the new slab of

sandstone that had been put at the head of the mound only that morning.

For on it had been chiseled crudely this pitiful inscription:

_Hear Lays Little Buck Wolfe_

IX

Granny Wolfe had signally failed to soften her son, Old Buck. She had

talked to him until she was hoarse, now pleading, now threatening him,

now browbeating him with her sharp and ready tongue. Several times he

had walked off to keep from hearing her; twice he had seized his fiddle

and gone to playing "Buffalo Gals" wildly to shut her up.

But her spirits were not so low this morning. She had put on her red

flannel petticoat wrong side out by mistake, and that certainly meant

better luck in the future. It was a sign that never failed.

She had gone out, with her little black dog at her heels, to weed a bed

of sky-colored ragged-robins. Her gaze sought out the not far distant

family burying-ground instead. That which she saw caused her to drop

her sourwood staff and step on her little dog's foot.

"Wag, ye black devil!" she creaked in response to the canine howl.

She recovered her staff, took her clay pipe from her almost toothless

jaws, shaded her eyes with one hand, and looked toward the side of

the Blackfern again. That which she had seen before had become an

indistinct blur.

"I wonder what!" she muttered.

The eyes of Old Buck Wolfe were keener. He threw a last clod at a

marauding hen, snatched up his always ready rifle, and hurried toward

the mountain.

As he passed his mother's cabin, she hailed him shrilly, "Wait thar,

and I'll go 'long wi' ye!"

He didn't even turn his head.

"You'd ort to be skun alive!" and she limped after him, Wag following

at her heels.

* * * * *

Colonel Mason looked for water with which to revive Tot and, it being

unfamiliar territory to him, failed to find any. Wondering whether

he could mount unassisted with the young woman in his arms, he went

back to his horse. Then he saw, standing less than two rods away,

as motionless as the trees about him, the bearded, hard-eyed, giant

mountaineer, Old Buck Wolfe.

"You're a terrible man, Buck," the colonel observed bitingly.

Wolfe changed not one feature.

"Will you be so kind, sir," and the old Southerner's voice was now not

so cold, "as to hold this girl until I can get on my horse, and then

pass her up to me?"

[Illustration]

Still no word, no move, from the hillman. His mother arrived, panting

heavily. She went straight to Colonel Mason. A great deal was plain to

her already.

"Le' me take keer o' Tot," she said, fumbling at the bandana corners

that were knotted under her chin, "ontel you can chase out the mountain

thar about half a quarter and wet this here handkercher in a little

spring ye'll find. Hey?"

The colonel returned not long afterward with the bandana soaking wet.

Tot opened her eyes the moment the water touched her face. Granny Wolfe

smiled, swept the matted and tangled hair back from the high, smooth

brow and crooned:

"Now don't you worry yore little self no more, Tot, honey. Why, the'

hain't a blessed thing to worry about! Little Buck ain't dead at all!

His pap thar, the cross-grained old fool, he made that 'ar grave thar,

and set up a tombstone to it, as a sign to the whole world 'at his best

son was dead to him. Don't ye see, Tot, honey? Why, it's as plain as

yore nose!"

"Cat-Eye didn't kill him?" Tot breathed uncertainly.

"Shorely not!" the old woman assured her.

"I thought Cat-Eye--had got him," Tot mumbled weakly, and slowly closed

her eyes.

Colonel Mason rose and faced Old Buck Wolfe squarely.

"You could be a mighty good man," said he, "if you would. I know you've

got plenty of chances to be bad; still, that's a very fine reason why

you shouldn't be. I tell you, sir, there's nothing much coming to the

fellow who is good simply because he hasn't any chance to be bad--and

don't you ever forget that. Come, now! Help your son instead of

hindering him. Be what you ought to be to him. You owe him your----"

"I don't owe nobody nothin'!" cut in the man who kept his word,

told the truth, and paid his debts; who bent his knees only to a

woodchuck's den, a ginseng root, or the furnace of a moonshine still;

and who believed in nothing that he couldn't see with his temporal eyes.

Old Kirby Mason drew himself up straight, as straight as he had stood

at Chickamauga when a general had complimented him to his face. But he

was pale now, instead of flushed.

"By George, sir!" he bellowed.

With that he sprang to the head of the new black mound, tore away the

slab of sandstone, lifted it in both hands and brought it down hard

against the stump of a tree, breaking it into half a dozen pieces. The

mountaineer went toward him, his rifle ready. The colonel looked into

the barrel of the weapon without flinching.

"You ort to be hung as high as Haman or higher, Buck Wolfe!" the old

woman cried. "You go home! Some says a old fool is the biggest fool on

earth, and some says a young fool is the biggest; but me, I say you

settle the question forever. Now you go on home!"

"Nobody hain't axed you fo' none o' yore edvice," growled her son.

"By gyar," Granny Wolfe retorted witheringly, "you need edvice, as

shore as the Old Scratch hain't a jaybird."

Colonel Mason turned to his waiting horse, and swung himself into

the saddle with the agility of a cavalryman. Tot seemed only

half-conscious, only half-alive, and it was with some difficulty

that the colonel and Granny Wolfe lifted her to the saddlefront. The

grizzled mountain man stood and watched it with a face like a mask of

stone.

Then the horseman left the old hillwoman berating her son mercilessly,

and rode toward the basin's bottom.

"Now, little lady," he said when they had come to level ground, "I'll

take you to your mother in short order. I'm afraid to try to take you

to Johnsville; it would probably be too much for you. It'll be all

right for you to go home. Your father is sorry he was so hasty with

you."

Tot stared wide-eyed into his patrician old face. Her spirit fluttered

up quickly.

"I want to go back to Mis' Mason," she told him.

"Oh!" smiled the colonel. "Back to Mrs. Mason, eh? Very well. Perhaps

it would really be better. You may need the services of a doctor, and

you couldn't get one out here--though I'd never dare to tell Granny

Wolfe that! And I fancy, little lady," he added pleasantly, "that Mrs.

Mason will be right glad to have you back."

They soon met young Wolfe, who had just ridden through Devil's Gate. He

heard the story as they rode toward Johnsville, and made no comment,

though there was a glint in his eyes that his foster-father hadn't been

accustomed to seeing there.

[Illustration]

Mrs. Mason saw them coming, and called the doctor by phone. Then she

ran to make ready the bed in the blue-and-white room upstairs.

It was a case of utter physical exhaustion and high nervous strain,

the doctor said; there was some fever now, and would doubtless be

more before morning. Tot watched him as though she were not the least

interested. After an hour, Doctor Rice left medicine and directions for

giving them, and turned homeward.

Another hour went by. The patient spoke to the anxious-faced little

woman who sat at her bedside.

"That tombstone. I can see it as plain as daylight. Ef I look somewhar

else, it moves whar I look. 'Hear lays Little Buck Wolfe.' Are you

shore he ain't dead, Mis' Mason, plum' shore?"

"Very sure," promptly. "He's perfectly safe."

"Ef you don't keer, Mis' Mason," and Tot strove to lift herself to an

elbow, "I'll jest step downsta'rs and see."

"Delirium," the colonel's wife whispered to herself. Aloud, "No, you

mustn't get up! Wait, dear; I'll call him."

Wolfe entered the blue-and-white bedroom a minute later. He went to the

bedside and knelt there, took one of the hot and fluttering hands and

caressed it awkwardly.

"I'm all right," he told her over and over. "Don't you see? Everything

is all right."

She appeared to be satisfied, and accepted a teaspoonful of

queer-tasting liquid without a murmur.

But the fever kept going higher in spite of the queer-tasting liquid,

and the doctor was summoned again. He gave a powder, left others, and

departed. Out in the hallway, Wolfe paced the floor anxiously. On the

veranda the colonel sat smoking and swearing under his breath at the

forces that had brought themselves together in a mighty attempt to

crush him that was as flesh and blood of his own.

Wolfe stopped his nervous pacing at the sound of soft footfalls behind

him, turned, and faced his foster-mother.

"I don't think you need worry yourself like this, Arnold; the case

isn't so desperate," said Mrs. Mason, half-whispering. She went on

smilingly, "If you hadn't told me about Alice, I'd think you were about

to fall in love with Tot--or that you'd already fallen in love with

her! She's handsome, honey boy, isn't she?"

"Very," he agreed, "but I'm not in love with her, mother."

Mrs. Mason gave him a wise look. "Of course, you aren't, not yet. It's

gratitude and appreciation, now. But a man of your make-up could hardly

help caring for a girl like Tot--after she has had a little polish, you

know. That was a boyish affair you had with Alice, a sort of flashlight

affair; you hadn't been much used to women, and she dazzled you.

You'll see the day, dear boy, when you'll be quite thankful that Alice

wouldn't have you. Now go straight off to bed, Arnold!"

"You'll call me if she gets worse?"

The colonel's wife promised. Wolfe went to his room. He shook his

head and smiled a trifle bitterly at that which Mrs. Mason had said

concerning "a flashlight affair." He thought she didn't understand.

But she did.

* * * * *

At noon of the next day, Sheriff Alvin Starnes, tall and lank, brave

and illiterate, rose from his office chair and went to a telephone

instrument on the wall. He asked for Colonel Mason's residence.

"This is Sheriff Starnes," he growled into the transmitter. "Is the

young lady still improvin'?"

"Doing finely, thank you, Sheriff." It was Little Buck Wolfe talking.

"The colonel told you about her, eh?"

"This mornin', sir. I think I'd better go after Mayfield, Mr. Mason. I

ain't forgot that I promised to let you run that end o' the county, on

account o' your kinfolks; but Mayfield ain't your kinfolks."

"Go ahead!" laughed Wolfe. "Hope you catch him."

"Startin' right now," replied Starnes. "Goo'-by!"

He hung up the receiver, rang off, crossed the room and took his

broad-brimmed black hat from a nail that had been half driven up in

the corner of a board lettered boldly: NO SWARING ALOUD. He buckled on

a revolver-laden cartridge-belt, and took a pair of buckskin riding

gloves from a drawer of his desk.

Just then there came a slow, heavy rapping at the door, the rapping of

a rifle's butt.

[Illustration]

The sheriff's lean face showed signs of annoyance. He went to the door.

Two men stood a few feet from the steps. One of them was loosely-built,

angular, and bullet-headed; the other was a big, square-chested man

with sunburned black hair and beard. Only the big man was armed.

"You're the high sheriff o' this here county; hey?" said Alex Singleton.

"I am, sir."

"Then you arrest this here rattlesnake--take him off o' my hands afore

I lose what little holt I've got on myself and put out his blasted

light!" old Singleton roared. His voice was hoarse, rasping, like the

sound a dull file makes when drawn across a thin steel edge. "He tried

his best to kill a man I call my friend, Little Buck Wolfe; and the

damned yaller dawg"--he was blind with rage, choking full--"he struck

the one and only gyurl I've got----"

"And arrest him, too," Mayfield broke in desperately--"arrest him, too,

fo'----"

"Shet yore mouth!" cried Singleton. His eyes blazed gloriously now, and

his voice held a note of triumph. He wheeled and faced Sheriff Alvin

Starnes again.

"And arrest me," he said, "fo' a-killin' Mort Gibson in a cyard game,

over on Shelton Laurel, five year ago come eight o'clock o' the night

o' next September the thirteenth!"

Alex Singleton, winner as well as loser, passed the officer his rifle

and a revolver, and held out his wrists for manacles.

X

It was the third of August, and one of the warmest days of the summer.

The extremely dry weather had withered all small vegetation; even

the leaves of the laurel, that evergreen chaplet of the hills, were

curled into little tubes and drooping. The majestic bald peak called

Picketts Dome shimmered in the pale blue heat-haze. The ragged fringe

of jackpines on the uneven, rockbound crest of the Big Blackfern stood

motionless for lack of a breeze, seeming much like soldiers turned to

stone in a battle-line that had previously suffered from the galling

fire of some invincible enemy.

Grandpap Singleton, the Prophet, mopped his old brow frequently with a

faded bandana as he followed the Devil's Gate trail, going northward.

He walked with a dogwood cane, his other hand resting on his rheumatic

left hip; but in spite of his decrepitude there was about his movements

an eagerness that suggested an objective point of no little importance.

When he was barely through the Gate, he came upon old Granny Wolfe, who

was kneeling beside the trail and trying to tie the ends of a 'coonhide

shoestring that was somewhat too short.

Before she knew that he was anywhere near her, he leaned over, touched

her lightly on the shoulder, and cried out like some mischievous boy,

"Boa!"

The old hillwoman, startled, went stiffly to her feet.

"Well, I wisht I may never! My sakes, Grandpap Bill Singleton, you

skeered me mighty durned nigh it to death! Now what'n Tophet do ye

mean, anyhow, a-slippin' up on folks that a-way?" She tried to appear

very angry, and failed altogether.

"Huh-huh!" laughed Grandpap Singleton, tugging at his long white beard.

"How's yore old bones this mornin', Jane Wolfe?"

Granny Wolfe smiled the smile she had been holding in with difficulty

for half a minute.

"Bill Singleton," she said, bending toward him, "ef it wasn't fo' the

dad-burned old rheumatiz', I'd feel like a yearlin' colt! I've been

a-totin' a buckeye-nut in my pocket, but it never done me a hoot's

wo'th o' good. 'Bout the onliest thing 'at ever helped me any was good

luck, lampile, and tarpentine. Ever try it, Bill, honey?"

Some thirty feet back in the laurel, a huge and gaunt man whose black

hair and beard were not without threads of silver, knelt before a

ginseng plant. He had been listening, and he had heard every word of

the little conversation that had just passed between his mother and

the father of his bitterest enemy. Once he had whispered to himself,

"Well, I'll be danged!"

[Illustration]

"I've tried everything, Jane," nodded Grandpap Singleton. "Well, I'm

a-goin' down to the upper end o' Little Buck's railroad to see Little

Buck, Jane. My pore son Alex his trial was to take place over in town

yeste'day, and Little Buck he'll shore know about it, o' course. I

shorely am a-hopin' they've done went and turned Alex loose; and

yit--and yit, Jane, he ain't never come back home!"

"And when is Cat-Eye Mayfield to have his trial?" Granny Wolfe wanted

to know.

"Done had it," the Prophet answered. "He got a-lackin' one day of a

year in jail, at hard labor. May I ax whar you'd started to, Jane

Wolfe?"

"Me? Oh, I'd jest started down to gass wi Little Buck fo' awhile, Bill.

My shoe it got ontied, and I was a-tryin' to fix it up when here comes

you to skeer me mighty nigh to death. I've allus heerd, Bill Singleton,

'at when anybody's shoe it got untied it was a shore sign 'at somebody

was a-thinkin' about 'em. Hain't you?"

The aged hillman nodded. Then he went to his knees before her, drew up

the ends of the 'coonhide lace, and tied them securely.

"I reckon ye ain't no objections ef we walk down thar together, ha' ye

Jane?" he asked as he straightened.

"Shorely I hain't, Bill," with a twinkle in her old eyes. "Jest so's

ye don't try to flirt wi' me like ye used to do! When me and you was

young and frolicsome, a-livin' with our folks back in the Balsam Cone

section, Bill, ye know; hey? Do ye rickollect, Bill Singleton, that 'ar

night when me and you was a-goin' home from Mariar Spinnett's weddin'

dance, and you slipped one o' yore arms around my waist?"

"Heh?" The old man almost jumped. "O' course I rickollect it, Jane.

Perish me ef you didn't slap my jaw so hard I couldn't taste nothin'

but red pepper fo' two weeks!"

Then his lined countenance became very sober. "And may I ax ye now,

Jane, atter so many years is gone sence, why it was you married

Sackett Wolfe 'stid o' me? I allus felt like I wanted to know, Jane."

"Well, I'll be danged!" Old Buck Wolfe muttered into his beard.

"Well," Granny Wolfe creaked, "I thought ye begun to boss me too soon,

Bill. But don't misonderstand me; I hain't no regrets about a-marryin'

who I did, though the day I tied up to Sack I reckon I loved you the

best."

Back in the laurel, Old Buck Wolfe sank down on his heels, the ginseng

root entirely forgotten. Grandpap Singleton took off his hat and shook

his snowy head sadly.

"And so come on, Bill, honey," smiled Granny Wolfe, "and le's me and

you go down to see Little Buck; hey?"

Together, side by side, they limped down the narrow trail, each of them

wondering what the difference would have been if they had married each

other in the wild and glorious morning of their lives. Old Buck Wolfe

crept from the thick underbrush and followed them stealthily, for he,

too, wished to know the outcome of Alex Singleton's trial.

The bed of the toy railroad had forged its way, like the path of some

monstrous serpent, to a point easily within three miles of Devil's

Gate. The geared locomotive had been put into service, and the laying

of light steel rails was progressing rapidly. Already the sawmill and

logging machinery had been unloaded from the new siding that the C. C.

& O. had put in for the Unaka Lumber Company.

The aged couple found the company's general manager talking with his

foreman under a great yellow poplar that was to be cut to make way for

the road's bed. Wolfe dismissed Weaver, and turned to shake hands very

cordially with his visitors.

"What about the trial o' pore Alex, my son?" Grandpap Singleton asked

forthwith.

[Illustration]

Wolfe had been expecting inquiry of this nature. He had his answer cut

and dried, as the saying is.

"Alex will be back pretty soon--" and Old Buck the eavesdropper

clenched his fists--"according to what Tot says about it. The trial was

postponed, and now they'll have to bring Cat-Eye from jail to testify.

Alex will stick to a straight story, and claim self-defence. Mayfield

will be the only witness the State will have, and we think Alex will be

cleared altogether.

"I hope the devil gits Cat-Eye Mayfield afore night!" cried Granny

Wolfe. "The rawzum-chawin' pup--his durned eyes allus 'minded me of a

spread-head snake's in dawg days!"

"And how's Tot a-comin' along in town?" asked Grandpap Singleton.

"She's doing remarkably well under Mrs. Mason's teaching," Wolfe told

them. "You'd hardly know her, already! She's studying grammar almost

day and night, and she wears her clothes like a lady."

"And when," inquired the garrulous grandmother, "is you and her a-goin'

to marry, Little Buck?"

Wolfe gave the old woman an odd look. "Never, perhaps."

"Well, now, that 'ar beats the Old Scratch." Granny Wolfe's face was

troubled. "Shorely, honey, you hain't never axed her!"

Old Buck pressed forward a little in the concealing laurel that he

might not fail to catch the rest of it.

"No," said his son, "I haven't asked her. And I probably won't, because

she wouldn't accept me if I did. I learned that much, anyway!"

Old Buck clicked his teeth. "Well, I'll be damned!" he muttered into

his beard.

XI

It was the first of October, which in the mountains means clear and

frosty nights and days like rare old wine. The pointed shadow of bald

Picketts Dome was reaching for the jagged summit of the Big Blackfern;

it was, therefore, almost four o'clock. Granny Wolfe sat huddled low in

the doorway on the sunny side of her old cabin; she was trying hard for

a nap. Her little black dog Wag lay at her feet, now and then snapping

at a bothersome fly.

The old hillwoman was in an irritable mood. She had slept almost none

the night before, which had been occasioned by her worrying over the

day when the little railroad would reach Devil's Gate, the basin's

mouth; she feared, and with good reason, that blood would be shed

then. Her son Buck was harder than ever, more grim, more silent, more

terrible than ever.

"Wag, drot ye," she said indistinctly, "ye'll gi' me fleas, ye little

devil."

There came then a long drawn, lonesome sound from somewhere near the

foot of Big Blackfern Mountain. It is no common thing to hear the

mournful cry of a whip-poor-will in the daytime. Granny Wolfe rubbed

her aching eyes and looked up in sudden anxious interest. Less than a

week had passed since Sarah Wolfe had told her that Preacher Longley

Thrash's wife's sister had said that her husband's uncle had said that

the cry of a whip-poor-will when the sun was shining meant a death

within three days unless the bird was killed promptly.

Granny Wolfe rose with a rheumatic groan, took down from its wooden

hooks over the doorway an old, old rifle that her departed husband had

loved next to her, and went toward the foot of the Big Blackfern.

"I'll git ye!" she mumbled to herself. "I'll git ye, drot ye!"

It came again when she had gone a hundred yards: "_Whip-poor-will!_"

"Plague on yore pickcher of ye!" she muttered, quickening her step

so much that her little dog was forced to trot in order to keep up

with her heels. "Ye imp o' Satan, ef I don't shoot a hole through ye

wi' this here old rifle o' Sack's big enough fo' a bay hoss to jump

through, I hope I may sink! Consarn ye to thunder! I hain't a-havin'

enough bad luck, I reckon," bitterly, "and so you had to happen along."

Shortly afterward, she drew back the hammer of the old rifle and limped

into the border of laurel. Something moved slightly on a log a few rods

up the mountainside, and she saw it. She rested the long barrel in the

fork of a sapling, and began to try for an aim, when a cracked old

voice came down to her.

"Don't ye shoot me, Jane Wolfe!" half laughing, half afraid. "Heh!

Don't ye shoot me, Jane Wolfe!"

"Ef it hain't Grandpap Bill Singleton, the Prophet!" Granny Wolfe

cried, greatly relieved. "Why, Bill, 'at's jest the way you used to

call me down to the big beech on the creek when you and me was both

young and frolicsome, ain't it? My pap he didn't like it fo' you to

come to see me, ye'll rickollect! Now I might ha' knowed, dang the

luck, what it was when I fust heerd it!"

She went on soberly, "Now what'n the name o' goodness do ye want to see

me about, Bill? You shorely hain't a-courtin'!"

"Heh! No, not a-courtin'," he said.

He moved slowly toward her, and she noted that he carried a worn

leather-backed Bible under one arm.

[Illustration]

"Yes," he told her, "it was me a-whistlin' like a whip-pore-will fo'

you, Jane. I didn't much like the idee o' goin' down thar in the

inemy's country to see ye, Jane. I wanted to have a talk wi' ye. About

the lumber track. Jane, Little Buck he told me 'at the track it would

shorely git to the basin tomorrow!"

Because Granny Wolfe had known that already, she expressed no surprise.

She leaned the rifle against a tree, and rested her hands on her thin

old hips.

"I'm a-listenin', Bill," she reminded him. "You ain't done a-talkin'."

"I wondered, Jane," thoughtfully, "ef the' was anything on earth you

and me could do to stop the bloodshed afore it comes."

"The' hain't!" Granny Wolfe exclaimed. "Bill Singleton, the's a-goin'

to be trouble sech as even me and you never seed afore. My son Buck he

has done passed his word 'at the railroad shain't never come into the

basin; Little Buck, bless his heart of him, has passed his word and

promise 'at it shall--and they're both Wolfes. Little Buck he's got to

put the thing through or die a-tryin', ef he's a-goin' to be hon'rable

to them 'at sold all o' their property to back him up. He cain't call

the law in to help him, acause that would--you know, Bill, jest what it

would mean. May the Lord ha' mussy on us all, Bill Singleton! I jest

don't know what to do! I've done wore mighty nigh it all the hide off

my pore old screakin' knees a-prayin' fo' peace. I've talked to my son

Buck ontel I was as black in the face as my dawg.

"And I've tried to pe'suade the rest o' the Wolfes to foller Little

Buck 'stid o' Old Buck," she went on gloomily. "But they won't do it.

They're like sheep a-follerin' a bell-sheep. All but Nathan, that is.

Nath he's allus loved Little Buck, somehow. And Nath he tried to talk

his pap into a-seein' the crookedness o' his ways, but it never done no

good at all. Lord ha' mussy on us all, Bill Singleton!"

"What did Old Buck say to Nath?" the Prophet wanted to know, one

palsied hand burying itself in his patriarchal white beard.

"He never said nothin' to him," was the answer. "He hit him in the

mouth wi' his fist. Pore Nath! Bill, I was jest so sorry fo' Nath, and

so durned mad at Buck, 'at I could jest--I could jest ha' died right

thar in my tracks."

"Well," Grandpap Singleton said hopefully, "mebbe it'll all come out

right in the end. Le's me and you both go to Old Buck and talk to him;

heh? Both o' us together, Jane. It may not do no good; but ontel we've

done it we hain't done all we could do, Jane. What do ye say; heh?"

"All right," Granny Wolfe nodded. "He's out the mountain thar a-makin'

a run on his moonshine 'still. He'll be mad when he sees us together,

mebbe; but ef you don't keer, I shorely don't. Bill Singleton, hain't

it a dad-burned shame fo' a man as good as him to be as lowdown mean as

he is?"

"Yes, Jane, yes. Ha' ye got a weensy teensy bit o' pipe tobacker about

ye, Jane? I fo'got to bring mine along, and I'm jest a-sufferin' fo' a

smoke."

"I ain't never without it, Bill, shorely," the old woman told him. "I

plants my tobacker afore I plants my bread cawn. We hain't got no fire

to light our pipes with, though."

"Good excuse fo' a-goin' out to Buck's still," said Grandpap Singleton.

He fished a blackened clay pipe from a trousers pocket. "The tobacker,

Jane."

She took a dry twist of homegrown tobacco from a pocket in her faded

calico dress, and passed it to him. He courteously filled her pipe

first. Then they went limping out the side of the Big Blackfern, these

two, over ground carpeted softly with leaves of brilliant saffron, pale

yellow, mottled scarlet, deep red, and several shades of brown. Neither

spoke, for each was saddened by a keen realization that it was autumn

for them in more ways than one.

After fifteen minutes of traveling thus, they entered a narrow and

deep, dark gash filled with hemlocks and laurel, through which flowed a

very small, clear stream of water.

"Why, the still it hain't far from the fambly buryin'-ground, is it,

Jane?" observed Grandpap Singleton as they stepped into a path that

wound its way dimly through the undergrowth.

"Which is jest as it should be, Bill, honey," returned Granny Wolfe,

her voice heavy with meaning.

"Heh! Yes, Jane," her companion agreed.

[Illustration]

Old Buck Wolfe was in no good humor that afternoon. For one thing, he

had been absentmindedly allowed a "run" to boil over, and the whisky

tasted like pickled beets. The decrepit pair found him on his knees

before the crude little stone-walled furnace; he was lustily blowing

the fire to make it catch to fresh wood. Another run was on.

Grandpap Singleton walked up silently, to all appearances unaware that

he was on forbidden land. He bent stiffly over and scooped a live coal

into the bowl of his pipe. A few puffs lighted the tobacco for him, and

he passed the coal to the pipe of the old woman. Then he very calmly

seated himself on a downward-turned mash tub.

"Buck," he said seriously to the moonshiner, who had been eyeing him

hard, "whar are ye a-goin' to when ye die?"

"I am a-goin' to a place," very readily, "which is knowed as a

three-by-seven, a grave, a hole in the ground, a last restin'-place,

and a last ditch, whar I'll rot down to plain dirt."

He sat back on his heels, and stared at Grandpap Singleton in open

defiance.

"Oh, no, Buck," and the aged mountaineer shook his snowy-white head

emphatically. "You hain't a-goin' to stop thar. No, sirree. Ef you

hain't quick to blaze a new trail, Buck, you're a-goin' as straight to

Hell as a honey-bee to its comb."

"How do _you_ know?" snapped Old Buck Wolfe.

The Prophet took his worn Bible from under his arm, put it flat on his

outstretched left hand, and touched it with a shaking forefinger as

each word was formed on his lips.

"I knows it by the Word o' God, sir." After a silent moment, he

continued, "Buck Wolfe, in some ways you're a most pow'ful smart man."

"I'm smart enough," the moonshiner replied, "not to be ketched

a-believin' in things I cain't see, anyhow."

"And so you hain't a-believin' the's anything in the nachur of a

hereafter, Buck?"

"Nor no Heaven, nor no Hell," the leader of the Wolfe clan

snarled--"nor no God."

His mother began to wring her hands. "Buck, honey, it skeers me to hear

you talk that a-way," she moaned. She sat down on the leaves, took the

red bandana from her white head, and wiped nervously at her eyes.

"My friend," said Grandpap Singleton, his voice ready to break, "you

shorely are mistaken. Didn't ye ever look at the stars at night, and

think about the beginnin' of 'em, and the endin' of 'em? Didn't ye ever

think 'at they was allus new, as old as they are--heh? Who else but a

God A'mighty could ha' made them stars--and the sun, and the moon, and

the earth?

"And about the res'rection, Buck. Take mighty nigh it the least thing

in the world, a mustard-seed. You put it in the ground, and it rots

back to dust jest the same as the human body does; and it comes up in

the spring, and without any o' the rot or the blackness--but, to save

yore life, Buck Wolfe, you cain't cut a mustard-seed open and find out

_what makes it grow_! I tell ye, the mortal soul has its June as well

as the mustard-seed. Buck, any man wi' even hoss sense in his head can

argy hisself out of a God ef he only tries. And _to them as thinks the'

ain't no God, the' ain't none, so far as they're concerned_...."

[Illustration]

And after a long, still minute: "Here's another proof, Buck. The' never

was a nation on earth but what wushipped somethin', whether it was a

image, the sun, or the true and livin' Almighty; and ef that hain't the

c'lestial spark handed on down and down from old Grandpap Adam, what is

it; heh?"

"Fear!" cried Old Buck Wolfe, jutting out his great, bearded jaw. "Most

o' good people is good acause they're afeard not to be, and fo' no

other reason. Take yore own case, Grandpap Singleton. It hain't been

so many years sence you was counted one o' the wickedest, fightin'est

men in the country--'Cracker'-Singleton, they called ye then. You never

made a change ontel you seed 'at yore best days was done past. You

jumped at the hope o' life everlastin' beyant the grave only atter the

confidence you had in yoreself was gone. Deny that, ef ye can!"

Old Singleton's countenance became infinitely sad. "I cain't deny it,"

he muttered brokenly. "I did put it off ontel I'd done turned the crest

o' life's journey. And it's acause I put it off fo' so long 'at I'm

a-doin' all I can now to build me a pore little shelter in the skies

afore I'm called on to go."

"Humph!" Old Buck Wolfe rose too. "Ef the' is sech a Bein' as you

think the' is, Grandpap Singleton, the's a-goin' to be some o' the

woolpullin'est times on the Day o' Jedgment ever you seed. I'd shore

ruther take my chances as I'm a-takin' 'em; not as a damned coward, but

as a onbeliever acause I hain't never had nothin' proved to me. Well,

I've got a run o' yaller-cawn licker to take keer of, and I tharfore

hain't got no more time to fool away wi' you. Tomorrow's a-goin' to

be a busy day here in the basin, as shorely as you're knee-high to a

tomtit. You better shell out fo' home, is my guess."

"One more minute," begged Grandpap Singleton. "You shorely hain't

a-goin' to give Little Buck any trouble in his lumber business, heh?"

"He hain't got no lumber business," flatly.

"I mean this here little railroad and the sawmill----"

"Hain't I done said 'at they shain't come?" sourly. "You've knowed me

long enough to know I keeps my word, hain't ye? And hain't I done told

ye I've got a run o' licker to take keer of? You take my edvice, old

man, and shell out fo' home."

Grandpap Singleton realized that his mission had failed utterly. The

disappointment was so great that it threw his feeble mind into one of

its temporary breaks. He knelt and lifted his hands, with the Good

Book clasped between them, and began to mutter unintelligibly. Old

Buck Wolfe, in a sudden rage, struck down the palsied hands, and sent

the Bible flying to the leaves; then he seemed sorry. He lifted old

Singleton to his feet, and pointed toward the southern end of the

basin.

"Go on home," he said.

The Prophet found his Bible and went off slowly, his shoulders

drooping, his head bent low. The moonshiner turned to his mother,

expecting another lashing from her sharp old tongue.

"Begin!" he commanded.

She said in tones so low that he barely heard, "My son, you'd ort to

take off yore boots, acause you're a-standin' on ground that pore old

man's knees made holy."

Before he thought, Old Buck looked downward. He bent over, his eyes

suddenly wide, his jaw hanging, and caught his breath quickly. Cut

there in the tightly packed earth was the sign of the cross, about

seven inches by five!

"Who done that?" he roared, straightening like a jack-in-a-box.

"What? Oh!" frightenedly. His mother, too, had seen the sign. "It's a

warnin', Buck, honey--a warnin' to you!"

[Illustration]

She wrung her hands. Her son looked about him queerly. Cut in the bark

of a nearby tree was the cross again, seven inches by five. And he

remembered distinctly that Grandpap Singleton had placed one hand on

that tree to steady himself as he went.

"Who done that?" he roared again. "You, mother, you done it. Old Bill

Singleton couldn't ha' done it without me a-seein' him. I'd ha' seed

him, I tell ye!"

"I didn't, Buck," came promptly. Granny Wolfe was quivering with a fear

that was certainly genuine. "It's a warnin' to you--Buck, it's the

crook o' His finger!"

Old Buck swore roundly. He caught up an ax and chopped away the sign

of the cross that had been cut in the bark of the tree. With his

boot-heels he quickly effaced that which had been cut in the ground.

Then he knelt before his false god, the moonshine still.

A voice cried out from the laurel, the voice of the Prophet. It seemed

to hang in the air, like smoke--smoke of burning incense.

"'_He came unto his own, and his own received him not._'"

XII

Dawn of that memorable day at Devil's Gate found the general manager

of the Unaka Lumber Company dressed and standing in the opening of the

tent he shared with Weaver. The foreman, too, was awake; he sat on a

box inside, busily lacing his boots. Wolfe hadn't slept well because of

that which bore so heavily upon his mind; he was quite nervous, which

was exceedingly unusual for him; strive as he would, he could not rid

himself of the feeling that disaster was very near.

After a few minutes spent in absentmindedly watching the antics of a

playful squirrel on the side of a nearby hickory, he turned to Weaver.

Weaver was fully acquainted with the circumstances; Wolfe had found

him extremely solid, and he had confided in him unreservedly. The two

had grown to like each other well in the few months they had spent in

working together.

"You're sure," Wolfe asked, "that we've got enough ties cut and piled

at the Gate to reach to the mill-site?"

"There's four thousand in that pile, sir," said the foreman.

"It ought to be enough. I'm going down to the engine, Weaver, to see if

Tom's got her fired up. Wake the camp, and let's get out as early as we

can."

The foreman went out, put his cupped hands to his mouth and shouted an

echoing, "Coo-ee!" In response to it, the tents of the negroes became

instantly alive, and laughter and joking began to fill the morning air.

There came from the cook's canvas domain the rattling of cast-iron.

Soon the laborers were kneeling beside the sparkling creek with soap

and towels. Not long afterward, many nostrils were sniffing hungrily at

the mingled odors of frying bacon and steaming coffee.

Wolfe found his geared locomotive already lifting at its safety-valve

spring. He passed the negro engine-man a word of praise, and returned

to the camp by an indirect route, trying to engage his worried mind

with the autumnal splendor of the woods as he went.

Breakfast was eaten as heartily as though no one expected anything out

of the ordinary that day--and no one did, except for Weaver and Wolfe;

the laborers had sensed nothing of the barrier that awaited the little

railroad at the basin's mouth.

Less than an hour later, the slow but powerful locomotive drew its

string of lumber flats to a halt at a point near where the rails ended;

it was a short distance below the Gate. The crew sprang to the ground,

each man of it with a pick or a shovel, a spike-driving hammer or a

crowbar, an ax or a saw. The work began forthwith.

Wolfe and his foreman walked ahead to the lower edge of the Gate,

entrance to the forbidden land. They stopped near a slender young

poplar that had been felled squarely across the trail during the night

just gone; it reached from one side of the pass to the other, and it

was strong testimony to the nice calculation of the person who had cut

it. Weaver looked puzzled, then he faced Wolfe.

"Who did this?"

"This," Wolfe answered correctly, turning to his companion, "is the

deadline."

"You mean your father----?"

"Nothing else." Wolfe picked up a leaf of transparent yellow, and began

to tear it to pieces without even seeing it.

Weaver suddenly wheeled and looked off down the creek. "I wonder what's

wrong back there?" he grumbled. "The boys have quit singing, and they

don't do that when everything is moving along smoothly. Suppose we see

if anything's happened; eh?"

He retraced his steps of a few minutes before, with Wolfe following at

his heels. They found the crew, even to the engineer, standing grouped

under a crooked water-oak; all their jaws were sagging, and all their

eyes were staring upward.

Suspended by a white cord, some twenty feet from the ground,

was a foot-square piece of cardboard which bore in pencil this

crudely-printed warning:

BLACK MAN DON'T

LET THE SUN GO

DOWN ON YE HEAR

"Say, Boss Weaver, suh," inquired a dozen uneasy voices at once, "what

do that mean, suh?"

Weaver did not answer the question. He looked toward Wolfe. It was

Wolfe's place to answer. But there was only silence.

The driver of the locomotive approached the foreman then. "What them

mountain people gwine do to us black men effen the sun go down on us

heah, Boss Weaver, suh?" he asked frightenedly.

[Illustration]

Before Weaver could utter the "I don't know" that was on his tongue,

there came from a point a few rods above in the laurel the keen report

of a rifle. The white cord parted, and the piece of lettered cardboard

fluttered to the ground. It was a forceful answer to the negro

engineer's question.

"Good marksman, all right," Weaver observed.

"Stay right here until I come back, boys," ordered Wolfe.

He hurried up the rugged steep, searched the laurel and the rocks,

and saw no sign of any one. He climbed to the top of a huge boulder,

and looked in all directions from that point of vantage. Then he saw

a huge, gaunt man with a rifle under his arm step from the underbrush

below and walk rapidly toward the settlement of the Wolfes. It was his

iron-hearted father.

"I thought so," he muttered.

He went back to Weaver and the negroes.

"I'll answer for your safety, boys, until the middle of the afternoon,"

he told the crew. It would require that long, he figured, to build the

railroad to the deadline. "You know very well that you can trust me to

keep my promises. Double pay from now on. Go to it."

The laborers resumed their work, but not very willingly. There was a

spirit of certain danger in the air they breathed.

A few minutes later, Wolfe faced this pointed inquiry from his foreman:

"Well, sir, have you any plans as to what we're going to do after the

middle of the afternoon?"

"I must admit, Weaver," promptly, "that I haven't."

He thought, then, of something he had once said to Colonel Mason: "When

I get to the barrier, I'll go over it, or under it, or around it, or

through it."

The little speech had seemed dramatic enough at the moment of its

utterance. Now it seemed tragic and pitiful.

"See here," said Weaver, gripping Wolfe's arm firmly, "there's only

one way out for you. I'll not deny that it's a hard way; it will

cripple or kill your first purpose, the--er, elevating of your people;

but there's no alternative. The law, I mean; that's your one way out.

When you cross the deadline with the track, your dad and his men will

be up there on the Big Blackfern's side of the Gate with rifles in

their hands--all but your brother Nathan--and the devil will be to pay.

After that, you won't be able to keep the law out; don't you see, sir?"

"The law----"

"Yes," Weaver nodded. He continued, "It wouldn't be hard for Starns and

a picked posse to steal upon them from behind while their attention is

turned toward your crossing the deadline, and arrest them; it could be

done without any trouble, I think. Then they could be kept--er, out

of harm's way until they promised to behave themselves. I'm only your

foreman, I know, sir. But I don't want to see you fail!"

Wolfe shook his head. "Even granting that the arrest could be made

without hurting anybody, it isn't the thing for me to do," he said

gloomily. "My people would refuse to work when they were put into jail;

they'd be starved to it; it would build up a hatred for me that no

length of time could wipe away. It is useless to talk about it, Weaver."

"But there's no other way, sir!" the foreman insisted.

"No other way?" echoed Wolfe. He faced Weaver sternly. "I'll show you.

There must be another way. It's up to me to make another way."

The other smiled a rather mirthless smile. "All right," he said. "Go

the limit. I'll try to be there with you, if you need me, no matter

what or where the limit may be. I'm no quitter, sir."

"I'm very much obliged to you," Wolfe said earnestly, "but----"

He never finished it.

The work went on sluggishly. The negroes were afraid of the men who

could so easily cut down a hanging thread with a rifle's bullet. Weaver

had learned well the subtle diplomacy necessary to his trade; but, try

as he would, he was unable to get those under him to move beyond a

certain pace.

Just before noon, Little Buck Wolfe went to see his father. Old Buck

sat in his cabin's front doorway; he was moodily whittling at a stick

of soft red cedar. The son stopped at the rickety gate, and leaned

lightly against one of the decaying posts.

"Good morning, father," he said brightly.

[Illustration]

The big mountain man looked up, saw his namesake, and went to his feet.

His face was the face of a savage now. His coal-black eyes glared his

unspeakable contempt. Every big, hard muscle in his body seemed to be

gathering itself for action. He was a human tiger.

"What in hell do ye want here?" he demanded in a voice that was as cold

and as merciless as death itself.

"I came to ask you for advice," quietly. "I'm very much up against it,

as the saying is. If you were in my place, trying to help your people,

trying to make good for the sake of those who put up everything they

had to back you, trying to win out without recourse to law--I say, if

you were in my place, what would you do? You know the circumstances.

Please advise me."

The shot failed to tell. It glanced off without leaving the slightest

impression as a shot.

"Ef I was in yore place," came readily and sneeringly, "I'd change my

name to Singleton--or Dawg--and 'en I'd go out in the woods and sp'ile

a good rope by a-hangin' myself with it. That's edzactly what I'd do ef

I was in yore place."

"That's no answer to my question," the younger Wolfe protested, trying

hard to hold his temper in leash and succeeding barely. There were

times when education fought almost a losing fight with his hot hill

blood, the blood that was not so far removed from the dark wildernesses

and their animal skins and clubs with heads of stone, and this was one

of those times.

"Yes, it is, too," blared Old Buck Wolfe. "Ef the's anything else ye

wants to know, spit 'er out; ef the' hain't, make some quick tracks

away from here!"

"One thing more," said the son, with enforced calmness. "Do you

actually mean to make murderers and outlaws of yourselves in the

attempt to keep me out of the basin?"

His father took up from beside the doorstep a repeating rifle of heavy

caliber. Old Buck held the weapon in his left hand, and with his right

forefinger slowly tapped the blued-steel barrel.

"The fust man 'at drives a spike on this side o' the little poplar in

the Gate will be shot by me, myself," he declared in a voice that had

become hoarse. "Now ye've got my word fo' that, and you know mighty

well 'at I keeps my word."

"The first man to drive a spike on this side of the deadline," Little

Buck Wolfe replied, "will be me. You know that you could never shoot

your own son. Our people never would stand for that. You wouldn't be

chief of your 'clan' any longer. You'd be cast out, just as you've cast

me out. And if it's necessary, I'll drive all the spikes that remain to

be driven."

This was a shot that made an impression. Old Buck had gone ashen behind

his beard, and his eyes were wide and staring. But he was not long in

a quandary. His rage had drawn him deep into the vortex of primitive

passion. The ties of blood were none too sacred now. He advanced a few

steps, and shook a great fist at his fifth son.

"Ef you don't believe I'll shoot you fo' a-drivin' the fust spike on

this side o' the little poplar, jest try it and see!" he cried. "I'll

do it ef I haf to shoot myself wi' the next ca'tridge in my rifle. I'll

do it ef I haf to shoot every man Wolfe by name. And ef you think you

can send a sheriff's posse out here to take me, try it. The' hain't no

sheriff's posse 'at can take me!"

He meant every word of it. He was almost a madman now. It drove young

Wolfe into the depths of despair.

"I'm not going to send a sheriff's posse out here," he said

broken-heartedly. He had a strangle-hold on his temper now. "I'm not

going to resort to law. I'm even forgetting that I'm an officer of the

law myself. I think--perhaps--I'd better--I'm going to drive that first

spike and let you shoot me. It's the only honorable way out for me.

Good-by, and maybe I'll meet you at another Gate after we've met again

at the Devil's!"

He turned and walked off blindly.

Blindly, and bitterly. The fates were set against him. The fates were

laughing in their sleeves at the failure of his strongest efforts, at

the defeat of his best impulses. In his despondency he really believed

that it would be best to drive the spike of destiny, take the bullet

from the cruel, never-erring rifle and die, and go out honorably along

with the soul of his iron father. Only two need die this way. The work

would be carried on by others, the Masons would not lose, and his

benighted people would ultimately be led into the paths of light. The

result, surely, would be worth the sacrifice.

He found difficulty awaiting him when he reached the workers below the

Gate. The negroes had talked matters over among themselves, and they

were anxious to be off from the place where danger lurked everywhere.

Wolfe went into their midst, and prevailed upon them finally to stay

with him for two more hours. The little railroad began to creep toward

the deadline once more.

[Illustration]

Wolfe seated himself beside the old trail, on a stone the size of a

small barrel, and watched the work almost without seeing anything of

it. A hand placed lightly on his shoulder from behind brought him

back to himself. He turned his head and saw a tall, slender but very

muscular, finely-featured young mountaineer smiling down upon him.

Through the newcomer's sharp resemblance to Tot Singleton, Wolfe

recognized him as her brother, "Fightin' Lon"--the only brother she had.

"Hello!" said Wolfe. He rose and proffered his hand. Young Singleton

took the hand and shook it warmly.

"We've jest had a letter from pap," said Fightin' Lon, in his musical

drawl. "Tot she sent it out from town by a hunter. Pap says he had to

git a real lawyer to write the letter fo' him, and we had to ax the

hunter to read it fo' us. Pap he said 'at he was acquitted on grounds

of self defense and 'count of no one believing Cat-Eye Mayfield and

'at he'd be a-comin' home right off, and he said fo' us to light in

and he'p you any way we could, Little Buck. So we gethered ourselves

together and cut the mustard right down here to he'p you build yore

railroad, all of us."

As though he had given a signal, more than a score of stalwart,

strapping hillmen emerged from the thick laurel, not one of them armed,

and formed a half-circle before Wolfe. The Unaka Lumber Company's

general manager shook hands with the last man of them.

"We heerd you a-talkin' to them 'ar darkies, Little Buck," smiled

Fightin' Lon. "You needn't to keep 'em a minute longer. We'll lay yore

road fo' ye, clean smack-dab to the top o' the Dome ef ye wants it to

go thar. And it shain't cost ye a red copper cent!"

Wolfe began to stare at the brown and gold carpet of autumn leaves

under his feet. Here was a dilemma, indeed. He didn't dare refuse the

assistance of the Singletons, on their own account; on account of his

own people, he didn't dare to accept that assistance. He wondered it

were possible to make Lon and his kinsmen understand. That appeared to

be his only hope.

"Men," he said impressively, "first I want to say that I don't know how

to thank you as I'd like to thank you, for this. Remember that. I'm

grateful. Now pay close attention to what I'm going to say to you."

He made them an eloquent address there in the mellow autumn sunlight,

there amid the sad glory of falling and fallen leaves. He appealed

with impassioned words to the good that he knew slumbered in their

half-savage breasts. There was little in his heart, indeed, that he did

not lay bare to them. But he saw their faces cloud in spite of all that

he could say. They could not, or would not, see far enough into the

truth to grasp his point of view.

"Let loose o' that 'ar pizenvine-and-honey stuff!" Fightin' Lon finally

interrupted. "You're a-wastin' puffectly good breath a-doin' it!"

The Singletons had reasoned, of course, that they were bending their

pride close to the breaking-point by conferring this great favor. They

had debated the question warmly upon receiving the letter from old

Alex from Nashville, and the affirmative had carried only because of

the stubborn insistence of Lon. Consequently, Lon was now by far the

angriest of them all. He drew himself up as straight as an Indian, and,

like an Indian, folded his fine sun-browned arms over his ample chest.

He held his head high, and looked down along his aquiline nose and to

the pale face of Little Buck Wolfe.

"Yore own folks has done cut you off," he said, his voice dry and

hard and pinched. "They even put up a tombstone wi' yore name on it as

a sign 'at you was dead fo'ever so far as they was concerned. I know

'em, Little Buck, and I know 'at you cain't never be at peace with 'em.

We're mad at this, o' course. We got a danged good right to be mad.

We had to fo'git a lot o' things to come down here this a-way, and it

hurts to be turned down flat. We come willin' to work the blood o' our

hearts out through our hands fo' ye. We come willin' to fight fo' ye ef

ye need it!"

He swallowed hard, and continued hotly. "Halfway stuff don't go wi' us

at all. I give ye this here: you can either put us to work without any

pay, or else we'll take the Lost Trail's side o' the Gate and stop yore

railroad afore it gits to the poplar tree deadline! Well," impatiently,

"which one is it a-goin' to be?"

"I believe," said Wolfe, "that I told you my people would fire on you

the minute you went to work for me. I explained to----"

He stopped trying to talk. It was of no use to talk.

"Didn't I tell ye," almost shouted Lon Singleton, "'at we was willin'

to fight fo' ye as well as work? Why, fightin' it's our middle names,

dang it to the devil!"

It was here that Weaver the foreman took a hand. He walked angrily up

to Singleton.

"Don't you see that you're tormenting him for nothing?" he asked. "He's

got the right dope, sure; you're wrong, absolutely. And it won't pay to

try sniping at us from the rocks up there, so take my advice and don't.

Now take your men away, won't you?"

He was fumbling nervously at the butt of the big revolver he wore at

his right hip. The Singletons glanced at each other, winked, turned

into the laurel and were gone like so many spirits. Wolfe beckoned to

his foreman.

"They'll be back pretty soon, Weaver. If they have to go home to get

their rifles, it'll be an hour--but they won't have to go home to get

their rifles. We'd better let the men go. Tell them----"

A rifleshot rang out sharply. A bullet struck a negro's shovel,

ricocheted, and buried itself deep in a tree with a quick and spiteful

_snak_! Another rifle bullet came whining down and splintered the

handle of a pick. Still another leaden warning struck a light steel

rail that rested on a laborer's shoulder, gave forth a nasty _ting_!

and dropped, flattened, to the ground. The blacks let out a wild howl

of fright, and broke incontinently for the shelter offered by the four

thousand ties. Once there, they looked reproachfully toward Wolfe; he

had promised to answer for their safety, and they were certainly not

safe now!

[Illustration]

Wolfe and Weaver also went to the shelter of the ties. They did not

succeed in convincing even one of the crew that they had not foreseen

the immediate thing they were facing.

Before long the Singletons separated, a man to himself, seeking to get

at all sides of the refuge the negroes had chosen. They did not mean

to shoot to kill; they meant only to shoot to scare. If they stopped

the building of the little railroad, that which they considered their

injured pride would be healed.

Then they opened fire again with hair-fine aim. But a glancing bullet

drew blood from the engineman's forearm--and Wolfe heard bitter words

of blame directed toward himself. It put Wolfe at the end of the

tether that had been strained so hard. He could have held himself in

no longer. The primitive part of him rose above his better self. He

snatched his revolver from its holster, and turned upon Weaver almost

savagely.

"We're going to fight, my friend," he said calmly but with a dangerous

glitter in his eyes. "Their bluff is getting serious--if it's a bluff.

A barricade all around us first--at it, boys!"

The ties made it. When it was done, Little Buck Wolfe, bright-eyed,

white in the face, straightened behind it and began to look for a

Singleton. He wanted to see Fightin' Lon. He had forgotten now that Lon

was Tot's only brother; that Tot had loved him nearly all her life; and

that Tot had saved him from death at the hands of the murderous Cat-Eye

Mayfield--the vise of circumstance had pressed it entirely out of his

memory in that moment of crisis.

He caught a glimpse of Fightin' Lon, and he fired six shots at him!

And Fightin' Lon, safe behind a tree, laughed down, "Bah! You couldn't

hit the United States, Little Buck, wi' a double-barreled scatter-gun!"

Wolfe growled out one of the few oaths of his responsible years, and

began to reload his revolver's cylinder hastily. A Singleton bullet

jumped his hat tantalizingly on his head, but he paid no attention

whatever to it. When he began to fire again, the foreman joined in

with his own revolver. The air in the barricade became thick with

powdersmoke. The echoes of the firing became one continuous roar.

Then one of the hillmen cried out in pain, and following that, the

acting-chief of the Singletons shouted in a black rage, "You've got

blood now, Little Buck Wolfe! We're a-goin' to shoot to kill from now

on!"

Weaver caught the general manager by a shoulder and drew him down and

out of danger. Bullets began to fairly pepper the barricade. The real

seriousness of their position smote Wolfe like a blow. He wasn't used

to this.

"Look up there!" said Weaver, pointing toward the Big Blackfern's jaw

of Devil's Gate.

Old Buck Wolfe and his men, all of them armed, stood in plain view up

there among the boulders.

"If your people don't help us," Weaver went on, "right here is where

we either stick up a white flag, or check out. We can't handle the

Singletons; there's too many of them. Let me ask your father for help!"

"No!" Wolfe objected. "No to the white flag, too!"

But Weaver was already shouting lustily to the leader of the Wolfes.

And Old Buck roared back this, "No, sirree! I've done promised I'd

never start another fight wi' the Singletons!"

Then a great silence fell over everything. The Singletons were saving

ammunition, and waiting patiently for a man inside the puny barricade

to show his head. Wolfe knew they wouldn't wait long. He knew they

would become impatient, and rush the barricade. He looked around at the

groveling negroes. Their lives were in his keeping; he was responsible

for their safety. For their sake, he decided that he would humiliate

himself in the eyes of both the Singletons and the Wolfes.

He drew from his pocket a white handkerchief, ever the emblem of rank

cowardice to the mountaineer, and began to knot a corner of it to a

sourwood switch.

But it was not necessary that he suffer the humiliation of being looked

upon as a coward. A big, square-chested man came running up the track;

he bellowed two words that were as magic--"_Go home!_"

The attacking party turned unhesitatingly to obey!

Wolfe leaped over the barricade to meet the newcomer. Wolfe was

altogether himself now. The spirit of civilization was again in the

ascendency.

"Alex Singleton, by the grace of God!" he cried dramatically.

XIII

Five minutes after the coming of the old chief of the Singletons, the

Unaka Lumber Company's general manager was the one man left in the

immediate vicinity of the piles of ties. Alex Singleton had driven his

kinsmen homeward, telling them in no uncertain language as they went

just what he thought of them for the grievous mistake they had made.

His brother Eli turned upon him angrily, and so did his son Lon; he

quite promptly knocked them both down.

Weaver had been sent with the negro laborers to Johnsville, where he

was to do the paying off. The Wolfes had disappeared silently from the

eastern side of the Gate.

[Illustration]

The one man left on the scene of the recent fight did not ponder the

situation for long. He took up an ax and went to cut the deadline

tree twice and remove the piece. He had not struck half a dozen blows

when he saw coming toward him from the basin, as fast as she could

possibly walk, his grandmother; the old woman carried her sourwood

staff horizontally, and the bowl of her clay pipe was turned carelessly

downward. When she saw her grandson alive, she stopped, threw up her

hands, and let her pipe fall to the grass at her feet. She appeared to

be unable to believe that he was really safe.

"Little Buck, honey," she called fearsomely, "is 'at shore enough you

a-choppin' that 'ar tree the same as ef--as ef ye wasn't hurt none? Or

does I see a sperit?"

"I'm all right, grandmother," he answered cheerily; then he asked

solicitously concerning her rheumatism.

"My rheumatiz? I'd durn nigh' fo'got it." She picked up her pipe, and

limped to him. "But I hain't no 'count, honey, at all. I'm skeered

ontel I hain't got as much sense as a last year's bird nest. I was

shore 'at ye'd been killed by them devilish fools. I dramp' it last

night, too. I wisht I may never git another breath ef it don't jest

look like the good Lord has fo'got ye, Little Buck, darlin'! But He

ain't. He jest got ye in the pot to b'ile ye down to see what the' is

to ye, honey. You stick; you show 'em. Yore pap hain't a-goin' to shoot

at ye. Yes, I knows about it. So does the rest o' the Wolfes. They all

says 'at he won't shoot at you. Why, he's dang nigh all to pieces!

"Or he was this mornin' early, anyhow," she ran on. "He found a cross

cut in his bedroom floor, seven inches by five! And the' hadn't been

nobody in the room but him and yore mother, neither; and yore mother

she never done it. Now ye needn't to ax me nothin' about it, acause I

shore don't know nothin' about it! But it makes me afeared to stay by

myself at night, Little Buck; I can tell ye that. Well, what about the

shootin'?"

He told her.

"I knowed it was the Singletons, acause most of it was done from the

Lost Trail side," she chattered. "Well, Alex he'll hold 'em down fo' ye

now. So you jest go right on ahead like ye've been a-goin', and ye're

shore to win out, honey."

"I hope to," he said uncertainly, "but I don't see how. I need men, and

I can't ask anybody to come in here and risk being sniped. I--I don't

know what I'm going to do about it, grandmother."

She cocked her head to one side. "Would Nath he'p any?"

"Yes," quickly. "I'd like to have Nathan. I wonder if he'd dare to come

over to me?"

"Little Buck, jest you ax him!" exclaimed the old woman, bringing

her staff down on the little poplar with a clatter. "And say, honey,

listen; don't call me 'grandmother'. Call me 'grammaw' like ye used to

when ye was a weeny teeny boy. Hey?"

"All right, grammaw," without the quiver of an eyelash, "I'll ask

Nathan the first chance----"

A man, tall, black-bearded, sad-faced, his mouth still showing signs

of the bruise made by an iron-willed father's fist, stepped from the

undergrowth and confronted Little Buck Wolfe squarely. There was a

repeating rifle in his hand. There was a dimness in his eyes. It was

Nathan himself. He shook hands silently with his brother.

The younger of the two men spoke first. "You've just come down from the

Lost Trail, Nathan, I see; what were you doing up there with a rifle?"

"I wanted to he'p you out."

"I see," gratefully. "You didn't shoot?"

"I never got thar in time," said Nathan Wolfe. "When old Alex he comes

a-runnin' up to you, I was jest a-fixin' to let Fightin' Lon have it

atween the eyes; and ef I'd ha' pulled the trigger, they'd shorely ha'

been another buryin' in the Lost Trail dirt. Little Buck, I heerd ye

a-wonderin' to Granny thar ef I would dare to come over to ye. Yes, I

would dare. I'm to ye, wi' pick or shovel, rifle or club, sink or swim,

live or die, ef ye reelly do want me."

"I really do want you," his brother hastened to assure him. "Well,

we'll go to work right now. While you finish cutting this piece out of

the deadline tree, I'll go back and throw some ties and rails on the

upper lumber flat. We'll try to get the track here by nightfall. The

grading is all done this far, you see, and the rest of it is all level

ground."

[Illustration]

Nathan put his rifle down on the leaves. "Gi' me that 'ar ax," he

grinned; and soon the woodland began to ring as his powerful arms drove

the steel blade up to the eye at each blow in the soft yellow wood.

By the coming of darkness, the two perspiration-soaked men had finished

the narrow-gauge road to the deadline. Then they sat themselves down

before a crackling brushwood fire, and ate heartily a meal of their

grandmother's cooking.

They slept beside the fire that night.

Granny Wolfe also furnished them with breakfast on the following

morning. When they had eaten, they rose silently, each thinking the

same thought, a thought concerned with the driving of a certain

very important railroad spike. The shadow of the Big Blackfern was

slowly falling from the crest of the Lost Trail and the base of bald

Pickett's Dome. A few birds were singing their good-by songs to the

lingering spirit of summer. A few sleek squirrels ran here and there in

the trees or on the ground, choosing only the finest of nuts or none at

all, now and then shaking their bushy tails saucily.

The old hillwoman was hopeful. She wore her red petticoat wrong side

out; she had seen, the evening before, the new moon over her left

shoulder and not through brush; she had dreamed of being at a wedding,

too, a wedding that had taken place in a big white house that stood in

the very center of a wide garden of flowers. All this, of course, could

mean nothing but good luck!

"It was you and Tot!" she whispered to Little Buck. "And how her blue

eyes was a-shinin'! Blast me ef I cain't see 'em yit, her eyes. Now

I keep a-wonderin', honey, how Tot she's a-gittin' along in town? Is

she a great, fine lady now, Little Buck? She shorely hain't got to be

stuck-uppish, has she; hey?"

"Not a bit," smilingly. "She's getting along well, and learning

fast; it's remarkable, they say. She's a fine lady, all right! But

she's hardly 'stuck-uppish,' grammaw. No fine lady could possibly be

stuck-uppish, you know."

"Well, I wisht--now hain't that the truth! Well, I'm a-botherin' of ye,

honey. You and Nath wants to go to work. So go ahead. Yore pap he'll

break his word, and 'en the goin'll be as smooth as ile. He--honey, ef

here don't come pore old Grandpap Bill Singleton, the Prophet! How d'ye

come on this fine mornin', Bill Singleton?"

The aged mountaineer's lips wore a smile, but there was worry in his

eyes. He limped up to the trio.

"Ef ever I've seed a drier summer and fall," he began, "I don't know

when it was. Why, what'm I a-talkin' about? I don't keer nothin' about

the weather now; what I want to know now, Jane Wolfe, is what has

become o' pore little Tot?"

Granny Wolfe straightened. "Hain't she at Johnsville, Bill?"

"She 'cided to come back wi' her pap yeste'day," said Grandpap

Singleton, "and he hain't seed her--nor none of us has--sence he outrun

her when he heerd the shootin'. Alex he's s'arched the woods all down

thar below, and mighty nigh it everywhar else, and he never found no

sign of her at all. Little Buck, please try to find her!"

"Perhaps she went back to the Masons--though it's not likely that she'd

run from a fight that her own people were mixed up in," young Wolfe

muttered. "We've a 'phone at the camp. Maybe I'd better go down there

and 'phone the Masons."

The old mountain man's eyes flitted to the silent locomotive.

"Ef ye go on the ingyne, I'd like to go wi' ye," he said. "I hain't

never--heh!--rid on no train nor nothin' like it."

"All right," nodded Wolfe. "Want to go with us, grammaw?"

"Shore," eagerly; "I hain't never rid on no train neither."

[Illustration]

Wolfe helped the two old people to the cab seats, uncoupled the

locomotive, sprang aboard and loosed the brakes. They were off for the

now deserted camp.

The Masons hadn't seen Tot Singleton since the morning of the day

before! Wolfe frowned hard at the tidings. After a few minutes spent in

talking with the colonel, he hastened back to the locomotive, which was

now trembling under a fair head of steam. He delivered his message to

Grandpap Singleton, and reached for the throttle-lever.

"Honey," smiled Granny Wolfe, seeming somehow like a guilty child, "ef

you won't git mad at me--I know whar Tot is! As we left the aidge o'

the basin, I seed her a-peepin' down at us from the laurels on the Lost

Trail side! I know I'd orter told ye, honey; but I hadn't never rid on

no train afore, and I--I was jest mighty nigh it a-dyin' to ride!"

"That's all right, grammaw," said her grandson. "I wonder why she

didn't go to her father's?"

Neither of his hearers could answer the question. He opened the

throttle, and a sharp staccato of exhaust shattered the woodland peace.

When he stepped from the cab at a point near the upper end of the

track, Nathan met him and said in a series of hoarse whispers, "The's

dozens and dozens o' eyes on us right now, Little Buck. Gethered up

thar on the Lost Trail is the Singletons, men, wimmen, childern,

and dawgs; the Wolfes is the same way on the Blackfern side. I

cain't locate pap, which ain't no good sign, Little Buck. I've been

a-thinkin' purty hard, sence you left fo' the camp. Pap he's plum wild.

He's a-goin' to shoot the man who drives the fust spike, and 'an he's

a-goin' to shoot hisself--to keep his word is his religion, and it's

his only way out. That's why he's hid out away from the rest of 'em.

You don't think he'll do it, hey? None o' the rest of 'em does. But he

will! Now, I've b'iled it all down to this here, Little Buck; listen

clost----

"Ef you was to have pap and t'others o' the clan arrested and kep' in

jail ontel ye could git through wi' buildin' the road and the mill,

they'd burn the mill and the timber-woods as shore as shootin' when

they got out. Then the law'd come out here wi' big posses, or mebbe

the militia, and the'd be a awful fight, and deaths and deaths. So ye

cain't do that. The one thing left is fo' me to drive the spike, and

let pap shoot me and keep his word; that'd turn all o' our people over

to you, acause they'd never stand fo' pap a-shootin' his own son. This

way, they'd be jest pap and me killed; t'other way, they'd be dozens

killed, and more dozens o' pore, daddyless little childerns left to

suffer.

"So I'll drive that spike, Little Buck," he smiled. "I hain't a-goin'

to let you do it. You're wo'th so much more'n what I am. You can carry

on the business, and I couldn't. Asides, I've been a awful mean man in

my day, and I want to do this here to sawt o' square things up wi' the

Almighty. And so good-by, Little Buck, and good luck to ye as long as

ye live!"

He caught up a hammer and a spike, and ran toward the section of loose

rails his own hands had placed the proper distance apart just beyond

the deadline.

His brother, shaken with emotion, started after him, to catch him and

hold him back, to take the hammer and the spike from him and to drive

the spike himself; but he tripped and fell, and before he found his

feet again Nathan had placed the big iron nail and was raising the

hammer to strike it.

"Wait, Nathan!" cried Little Buck Wolfe frantically. "Stop!"

Nathan did not wait. The hammer fell with a force that sent the big

iron nail halfway to the heart of the oaken tie. Again the fine,

muscular arms lifted the pointed hammer, and again did the hammer

fall--then there came from the eastern jaw of Devil's Gate the roaring,

murderous sound of a shot.

But Nathan paid no attention to it! He worked on determinedly. Before

the echoes of the report had died completely away, two more spikes had

been driven up to the head beyond the deadline. Little Buck Wolfe went

to help, and soon the entire section of rails was made fast. A victory

was won. For the first time in his life, Old Buck Wolfe had failed to

keep his word.

The two brothers straightened then, and looked in all directions. A

moment later, they saw Sheriff Alvin Starnes and a posse of men that

represented the flower of the county's manhood, step into the Gate

trail from the undergrowth; and they held as prisoners Old Buck Wolfe

and nineteen other Wolfes, all of them disarmed and handcuffed!

[Illustration]

The general manager of the Unaka Lumber Company went pale. He ran

toward the sheriff's party.

"Sheriff Starnes," he protested hotly, "this is my own affair! You must

let my people go. I never can do anything with them if you take them to

jail, never! I promised my father that--at least, I told him--that I

would not resort to law. He can't ever be made to believe that I didn't

send for you; he thinks I've lied to him, don't you see? They didn't

harm me, or my brother Nathan. The fact that you found them with rifles

amounts to little; they're never without rifles. Please let them go!"

"One minute, Mr. Mason!" the illiterate, but brave Sheriff Starnes was

somewhat angry. "We didn't arrest these men for nothin'. It was like

this. One o' my deputies and me watched your father, while the rest o'

the posse watched the other nineteen; your dad was some little distance

away from the other nineteen, y'see. When the first spike your brother

drove was goin' down, your dad lifted his rifle and said to hisself,

and loud enough for me to hear, 'I'll git him in the edge o' the leg,

anyhow, and keep my word.' I fired off my revolver as a signal for my

men to cover the rest of 'em, and my pardner and me took charge o' your

father.

"They've got to stay in jail, sir," he continued sharply, "until they

can give a peace bond; and they cain't give a peace bond until they

promise to not harm you or the business you're managin'. Maybe you

don't know it yet, Mr. Mason, but Mr. Whitney Fair is buyin' out all

o' the stock-holders in this thing but you and the colonel, which

will give him a controllin' interest--and you know how he stands on

sentiment!"

Whitney Fair! Alice's father. It was very bad news, indeed. Wolfe

clenched his fists instinctively. Whitney Fair was a--a hog.

"We'll make no sech of a promise to nobody!" stormed the ashen-faced

old clan chief.

The nineteen others repeated the declaration grimly, and some of them

striped it with oaths.

"If I was to let 'em go," the sheriff went on, his voice now not so

hard, "what then? You couldn't finish buildin' your operations, and you

couldn't operate your operations even if you had 'em built. Jail's the

only cure for this contrary twenty, sir. It'll take some o' the pepper

out of 'em, and it won't do the everlastin' harm you think it will,

either."

Thereupon Starnes and his posse half led, half dragged, their prisoners

toward Johnsville.

Once more young Wolfe found himself in despair. What meddlesome person

had brought the interference of the law? Whitney Fair? Who had told

Fair about the crisis? Had it not been for that interference, the day

would have been signally won for him. True, Nathan would have been shot

in the leg.

But what was a fleshwound to such a victory! For his people would

have discountenanced even that slight wounding of Nathan, who had so

nobly laid himself on the altar of sacrifice, so much that they would

have ceased to look to his father. His people would have come over as

Nathan had come over. Thrown down, broken-spirited, his father himself

might--possibly--have come over to the right way of thinking.

He didn't blame Starnes for taking the nineteen others also. Starnes

could not have taken any one of the clan; he had to take the entire

faction or none of it.

Weaver arrived from Johnsville. The moment Wolfe saw his foreman,

he did something that was rather unusual for him; he jumped at a

conclusion.

"What right had you to send the sheriff out here?" he thundered. "If

you would take care of your own affairs, and leave mine to me, no doubt

you would----"

The look of intense hurt he saw on the face of his friend stopped his

speech abruptly. It was long before he forgot that look.

"They'll pay you what's due you at the office," he went on grimly, and

Weaver went off down the track.

[Illustration]

A slender figure in a blue dress sprang out of the laurels and

confronted Wolfe. It was the missing Tot Singleton!

"He didn't do it!" she breathed. "I did it--I did it because I just

c-c-couldn't bear the thought o' you being killed. I met Mr. Weaver

going to town yesterday, and I made him tell me everything. Then I went

for the sheriff and a posse--but I made the sheriff promise he wouldn't

act unless it was to prevent bloodshed. Mr. Weaver took all o' the

blame to save me. Call him b-back and ask him to excuse--to pardon you!"

Wolfe had been seeing her too often, and he had been too busy, to fully

appreciate the vast improvement she had made in her language--even when

he wasn't beside himself with anger. He gave her a queer, narrow smile

now, then called Weaver back and apologized.

"And will you forgive me, Little Buck?" plaintively whispered Tot, when

the foreman had turned away.

The bitter answer of Little Buck Wolfe, who in this black hour was

mostly mountaineer, came promptly.

"I don't think I will," he said.

XIV

It was with a growing feeling of contempt for himself that Wolfe

watched Tot Singleton go silently and broken-heartedly toward her old

home in the south end of the basin. He knew that he had been grossly

unkind to her, to say the least. She had done that which she had done

only because of her deep interest in his own welfare. She had been his

guardian angel, ever ready to make any sacrifice for him, and she had

never asked anything of him but--forgiveness.

He grappled with the foolish primitive pride that had more than once

come near to being his undoing, and put it down.

"Wait, Tot!" he said.

Instead of waiting, she began to run from him. She, too, had a certain

amount of primitive pride.

And he frowned and let her go.

Not long afterward, Alex Singleton appeared with twenty-seven of his

kinsmen, among whom was his son. He proffered the services of himself

and the twenty-seven strapping hill princes in the work of finishing

the railroad. Under the new circumstances, he believed Wolfe would

feel free to accept. Wolfe did accept, with gratitude, and the little

lumber track began once more to move onward.

[Illustration]

When the mill-site was reached, the Singletons, with old Alex as

foreman, went to one of the big coves and began to wage war upon the

giant oaks and poplars. A better force of woodsmen never felled trees.

Wolfe hurried out the necessities for the building of the monster

sawmill as fast as they could be shipped. Following the material,

came carpenters, masons, and millwrights. The plant went up with a

rapidity that was next to amazing. The first day of November saw all

the machinery installed and belted, and a huge pile of perfect logs

waiting to be converted into export stock worth above a hundred dollars

a thousand feet. Since entering the basin, there had not been a single

hitch anywhere.

And in October, that month of silences, dying leaves and soft, hazy

skies, Wolfe did something besides watch over the building of the

sawmill. On the spot where his father's rambling, rotting, leaky cabin

had stood, an extra force of workmen had put up a very comfortable

dwelling of six rooms; it was furnished throughout with modern

furnishings, and lying on one of the cabinet mantels was a beautiful

orange-and-brown violin. The whole was to be a surprise present for the

elder Buck Wolfe. After some persuasion from the colonel and his good

wife, Sheriff Starnes had agreed to bring the old clan leader out to

see it.

The son was counting upon this surprise present to do much toward

softening the hard iron of his father's heart. He had drawn his salary

for fifteen months in advance, in order that he might build and

furnish the house and buy the violin. It had put him to wearing cheap

blue shirts and corduroys; he was saving his one presentable suit for

special occasions.

The mill was to be started at noon. The Masons and Tot Singleton, Alice

Fair--who was still dazzlingly pretty--and her father had come out to

see it. Whitney Fair now owned a controlling interest in the company,

which was no fault of Colonel Mason's, and he wasn't going to miss

anything. Physically, Fair was a big fellow, corpulent and florid, with

an unlikeable cleft in his chin and eyes that were a little too small

for the rest of his features.

Promptly at twelve o'clock the great whistle blew and awoke ten

thousand echoes from the walls of the basin; Progress the Brobdignagian

was once more defying the spirits of the wilds. The sawyer threw a log

to the carriage by means of a powerful steam apparatus; he thrust his

main lever forward, and the foot-wide ribbon of steel dove into the

wood with a scream like that of some victorious medieval warrior. The

edgers and trimmers and slashers began to roar intermittently; it was

like the quarreling of demons. Fine yellow poplar panel stock began to

drift down the transfer chains and to where an inspector stood with a

new rule in one hand and a new tally-book in the other.

[Illustration]

The Masons and the Fairs shook Wolfe's grimy hands in congratulation.

The humming of machinery and the sounds of the saws made speech

impossible; but the man who had built the mill understood.

Then Wolfe missed Tot Singleton, and wondered where she had gone.

Her absence was, somehow, a fly in this ointment. He left the Masons

and the Fairs, and went down the outside stairway to the ground. The

Singletons met him in a body. He found himself on old Alex's shoulders,

while the rest of them cheered. When he was set on his feet, Granny

Wolfe appeared with her staff and her dog; she put her arms proudly

around his neck, drew his head down and kissed him on the forehead.

"Granmaw's so happy today, honey," she told him brokenly, "'at she

could jest drap dead in her consarned old tracks. Kiss grammaw!"

He did, quite affectionately. Old Grandpap Bill Singleton then shook

his hand as heartily as his poor strength would permit, and said to

him, "Well done! You shorely ain't a slothful servant."

But the fly was still in this ointment of Wolfe's. Tot had stolen away

to keep from meeting him. She was still angry with him, and the thought

was oddly annoying!

His footsteps led him, it seemed without the aid of his will, up the

creek and to the stately old willow that still towered over its bar of

pure white sand. He came upon Tot standing motionless against the body

of the gently whispering tree. She met his eager gaze with a pair of

blue eyes that were half-curious and half-defiant.

It was Tot that spoke first. "I understood that the mill was to be set

in the very center o' the basin. This tree is in the very center o' the

basin. Why didn't you put your mill here, Mr. Wolfe?"

He stared at her. Then he took a sort of grip on himself.

"Because I didn't want to--er, desecrate this fine old spot," he told

her. "Now please don't call me 'Mr. Wolfe' any more!"

"Oh, Mr. Wolfe," with the very queerest, chilliest little smile, "how

many times did you figure out the amount o' lumber you could get from

this tree before you mag-nan-i-mously decided to let it stand--Mr.

Wolfe?"

He winced. A sharp reply sprang to his lips, but he kept himself from

giving it voice.

"If you don't mind," he said, "I'd rather you wouldn't tease--now."

"Well," and her eyes scintillated peculiarly, "'Little Buck' sounds so

much like an outlaw's name, or the name of an ox, you know."

She was strikingly handsome in that moment. A sudden feeling that he

was her inferior kept him from being very much exasperated. He looked

down at his ragged and greasy corduroys, at his grimy hands, at his

worn old boots. He touched the short, stubby beard on his chin with

finger and thumb. But he must offer his long-delayed apology.

"I wanted to ask pardon, Tot," said he, "for telling you a month ago

that I didn't think I'd forgive you for sending the sheriff out here.

I've seen you but twice since that day, and you avoided meeting me both

times, or I'd have apologized sooner. Will you pardon me, Tot, and try

to forget that I was such a brute?"

The mountain heart within her leaped wildly. What was an apology,

the mere uttering of a few courteous words, compared to the nights

and nights of poignant suffering his wounding her had brought? She

had drawn deeply from self-pity for solace, without knowing that

self-pity is one of the most poisonous weeds in the garden of life. She

remembered more keenly than ever now. The wrong was magnified in her

intensely human breast. And--she loved him.

Tot Singleton straightened proudly and proudly lifted her head.

Deliberately she repeated the words that he had said to her when it was

she that begged forgiveness.

"I don't think I will."

"Tot, you can't mean that!"

"But I do mean it," quite calmly.

"Then I'm mighty sorry, little girl."

He faced about slowly and left her, going toward his sawmill.

"I'm lowdown!" she whispered to herself when he had disappeared in the

bush. "I made fun o' his name, and how could he help his people if he

used any other name? Oh, I'm lowdown--He's such a fine man, and I--I

have to watch myself, or I can't even talk proper!"

She turned her face to the body of the old willow that had been a

witness to so much in her life, and sobbed because she hated herself

for having taken her revenge.

XV

Thirty days in jail had not made the Wolfe clan into better men.

Contrary to the expectations of Sheriff Starnes, not one whit of the

pepper had been taken out of them. They were as grim, as silent, and as

bitter on the thirtieth day of their imprisonment as they had been on

the first. They had stolidly refused to help in the building of good

roads for the county until a diet of plain bread and water forced them

to it; and then they had worked slowly and sullenly, shirking at each

and every opportunity. Not a man of them but watched by day and night

for some avenue of escape. For escape, to the twenty mountaineers, was

the one and only alternative of rotting in jail.

[Illustration]

Several times Sheriff Starnes had called Old Buck to him and said in

the kindliest possible fashion. "If you'll give me your word that you

won't allow your son or the lumber business out there to be harmed,

I'll sure raise a peace-bond for you and the others, and let you go

home. Promise?"

The stubborn old hillman had not once stooped to give the officer a

verbal answer to the question. He had not even shaken his shaggy head.

He had said once that he would never make such a promise, and once was

enough to say anything.

The jail gang had come in from work on the evening of the day that had

seen the starting-up of the big sawmill out in Wolfe's Basin. Much

to his surprise, Old Buck found himself alone and unguarded in the

little room that served as a lavatory. He peered down the long, narrow

corridor that led to the jail's main entrance. There was no person in

sight. He had but to make a determined dash for liberty, and liberty

would be his. The dusk was thick outside now.

But he didn't make the dash! It was not according to his code of honor

to go free himself and leave the other men of his name behind bars.

Where one Wolfe went, all the Wolfes must go; when one Wolfe suffered,

all the Wolfes must suffer; it was part of the clan's religion. The

big hillman threw away his opportunity to escape without the slightest

regret.

He drew himself up almost ludicrously straight, walked to the main

entrance, and shouted for Alvin Starnes. The sheriff and John Bird, the

night jailer, appeared before him.

"What're you doin' out here?" Starnes asked puzzledly.

"Lookin' fo' somebody to lock me up, that's what," growled the

mountaineer. With intense scorn, he went on, "You two is a purty pair

o' rose-geraniums, hain't ye? Yau ain't fitten to gyard geese, let

alone a real man-size man like me. Now smoke that in yore pipe, you

tin-can sheriff! Put down yore guns, and I'll thrash ye both."

"I reckon not," smiled the sheriff.

"I reckon not," parroted the jailer.

"Cowards!" retorted Wolfe. "Well," impatiently, "are ye a-goin' to keep

me a-standin' here all night? Ef ye hain't a-goin' to tangle up wi' me,

stop a-standin' thar a-gawpin' at one another like a pair o' sick hound

pups, and le' me into my res'dence!"

Shortly afterward a door of iron bars was closed and locked behind him.

Old Buck ate his supper greedily, wiped his bearded mouth with a

blue bandana, and stretched himself out on his hard and narrow bed.

Everything was quiet now, save for the ceaseless chirping of a cricket

somewhere under the jail floor. The rays of the little electric in

the corridor lighted the cell but dimly, and threw the shadows of the

door's bars in weird, snaky, black lines against the outer stone wall.

Old Buck looked slyly across to where his cellmates, his son Oliver and

Cat-Eye Mayfield, sat on a pair of soap boxes. He glanced toward the

door, rose and tiptoed over to them.

"I reckon we'll try it tonight, boys," he whispered. "Tonight'll do as

well as any other time, I reckon. Ef it fails, it'll jest haf to fail.

Better go to bed, both o' ye. But don' take off nothin' but yore boots.

Watch me; and when ye see me give the signal, take yore place whar

we've done agreed. Now rickollect, boys, the feller 'at makes the least

bobble gits the thrashin' of his life from me!"

The two nodded and began to remove their footwear. The old clan chief

went back to his bed, pulled off his boots and threw them noisily to

the floor as was his wont, and hid his huge figure under the gray

blankets.

All through the hour that followed, Old Buck watched the corridor

covertly. Then he saw just what he expected to see and had been waiting

for: John Bird brought a small table, a chair and a newspaper, and

proceeded to make himself comfortable a few feet from the iron-latticed

door.

[Illustration]

Now this night jailer never failed to become drowsy at about the time

when most people are going to bed, and nobody knew it better than the

men he guarded. Soon he began to nod in spite of himself, and Old Buck

Wolfe rose without a betraying sound; he took from his bed ten feet of

strong wire, which he had cunningly smuggled into his cell a few days

before, and very deftly made a slip-noose at one end of it. This done,

he threw out a hand toward Mayfield and his son Oliver; they rose

noiselessly, and stole to a point beside the iron door.

The high light of the scheme crept forward cautiously. He thrust the

slip-noose out, dropped it over the shoulders of the nodding jailer,

and with a violent backward surge, jerked him from his chair and pinned

him hard against the door's bars. Oliver Wolfe quickly put an arm

through and caught Bird around the neck; with the other hand he shut

off the outcry Bird strove so desperately to make. Cat-Eye Mayfield

snatched a big revolver and a ring of heavy keys from the jailers

figure, and within another moment he had shot back the bolt that had

held him a prisoner!

"Bring them 'ar three new wash towels from the washin' room, Cat-Eye,"

whispered Old Buck. "We're shorely a-goin' to do this here thing up

right and tight whilst we're about it."

One of the new towels was knotted hard and fast over John Bird's mouth,

making it impossible for him to call out; the other two were used to

bind Bird's hands and feet. The three mountaineers then pulled on their

boots, found their hats, put the night jailer into the cell they had

so recently occupied and locked the door upon him, and hastened to

liberate the rest of the Wolves.

"Now," grinned the leader, after they had gained the cover of the

outside darkness, "now fo' the basin and a big kag o' yaller cawn-juice

edzactly seventeer year old come next berry-pickin' time. I was

a-savin' it, Cat-Eye, fo' my friends to drink at my fun'ral."

Twenty minutes later, they climbed aboard an eastbound C. C. & O.

coal train, which had stopped at Johnsville to take on water for the

locomotive. There would be no difficulty whatever in getting off at the

sharp grade just beyond Wolfe's Creek.

John Bird did not succeed in ridding his mouth of the towel, though he

struggled until he was faint. He resigned himself to the inevitable,

and there was a deathlike silence in the jail--save for the ceaseless

chirping of a cricket somewhere under the floor.

XVI

When the first afternoon's sawing was done, Little Buck Wolfe went to

his adoring old grandmother's cabin for his supper. He had been taking

his meals at the new house; but his mother was now entertaining the

Masons and the Fairs, and she had her hands full without caring for

him. Shortly after nightfall, he turned toward a small, rough building

that stood not far from the mill. This little building had two rooms;

one of them was furnished with a cheap bed and a cheap dresser, while

the other contained a desk and a chair, a table, and an iron safe that

now held four weeks' pay for the twenty-six carpenters, masons, and

millwrights. Wolfe stopped at the door of his office and looked upward;

except for a thick bank of clouds that lay low in the west, the sky was

filled from horizon to zenith with very bright stars.

[Illustration]

A moment later, he sank into his swivel chair, took a tally-sheet from

his desk, and began to figure by the light of an oil lamp. The mill

had, he found, cut two thousand dollars' worth of choice lumber in five

hours! There were, he told himself, big gold mines that did not pay as

this sawmill was going to pay.

Just then there came to his ears the hum of merry voices, which was

followed by a sharp rap at the door. He called out an invitation to

enter. The door swung stiffly inward, and the Masons, the Fairs, Granny

Wolfe, Tot Singleton and her father and a spotted hound came trooping

in. Fair and the colonel wore overcoats; the women wore wraps.

"You be the spokesman, Alex," said Colonel Mason, with a sly wink at

the general manager.

Old Singleton tugged at his sunburned, black beard and laughed like a

happy, healthy boy.

"How about a 'possum-hunt, Little Buck?" he asked.

"It's too dry, isn't it?" said Wolfe. "I'm afraid a dog couldn't pick

up a trail at all, tonight."

"It hain't rained--durned ef I know when it was!" chattered Granny

Wolfe. "Wisht I may die ef ever I seed another sech a dry summer and

fall sence I was borned. Would ye gi' me a match, Little Buck, honey?

This here contrary old pipe it's gone out ag'in."

"Why not have a cigar?" Whitney Fair suggested sportively, drawing a

light-brown weed from a vest pocket.

"I be consarned ef I don't try it oncet, anyhow!" laughed the garrulous

old woman. "I allus would try 'most anything oncet."

She applied a burning match to the cigar, and went to puffing with all

her might, greatly to Whitney Fair's amusement.

"Yes," Alex Singleton agreed seriously, "it's too dry fo' a dawg to

trail good. A feller just couldn't catfoot atter squirrels at all now!

But these here folks they're all dead sot on a 'possum-hunt, and I've

done j'ined my symp'thies wi' their'n. The's a lot o' pe'simmon-trees

jest a-hangin' full down thar clost to whar yore little railroad meets

the big railroad, and we might find a 'possum or two in them trees

'thout havin' to depend on the dawg to trail. And as the steam hain't

went down in the ingyne yit, we wondered ef we couldn't have what Miss

Alice thar calls a 'scursion as well as a 'possum-hunt. We could put

some chairs on a lumber flat, ye know."

"Come along, like a good fellow," urged Fair, smiling a cold smile that

temporarily effaced the cleft from his chin. "The safe will be all

right, won't it?"

"I don't see why it shouldn't be," Wolfe answered. He threw off his

weariness, and entered into the spirit of the thing. "I'll run up to

the mill and get the locomotive and a flat," he continued, "and pick

you up somewhere on the track below. While you're waiting for me, Alex,

you might ask my mother for half a dozen chairs, and get about two

lanterns ready, eh?"

Singleton nodded joyously. The seven callers and the dog then hastened

into the cool, starry night.

[Illustration]

Wolfe shaved himself and put on his one presentable suit of clothing,

which required fifteen minutes. When this was done, he thrust a pair

of buckskin gloves and a small flashlight into his pocket, and hurried

toward the mill.

His brother Nathan, the watchman, challenged him faithfully. He

instructed Nathan in case of trouble to call Weaver, who was now the

mill's foreman, and who stayed at the big and rough boarding-house

that had been erected for the accommodation of the "furriners" of the

operating crew. Then Wolfe went to the geared locomotive, threw fresh

coal into the furnace, and coupled to a lumber flat.

He met the others at a point close to the new dwelling that was to be

given to his father, and took them aboard. Alex Singleton rode on the

fireman's seat with his dog in his lap.

They stopped near the C. C. & O. siding. Granny Wolfe knocked the fire

from her first cigar, and put the half-smoked weed in her pocket to

save it. Alex Singleton took up one of the lighted lanterns, and set

his feet in a narrow, laurel-lined trail that led off westward. Behind

him in the order named went Granny Wolfe, the Masons, the Fairs, young

Wolfe, and Tot Singleton.

Miss Alice Fair began to lag purposely, and soon there was a distance

of some fifteen yards between her and her father, who carried the

second lantern.

"That bank of clouds ahead looks like rain, Arnold," she said--plainly,

to make conversation.

"Yes," agreed Wolfe; "and we need it."

"You've been avoiding me, Arnold."

He admitted it.

"Because you didn't want to be near me--which, of course, is a very

simple conclusion!"

"Er, yes," he said.

"Why didn't you want to be near me?"

"Because we have nothing in common now, Alice," he told her. "It's--er,

your own decree, and it's the best for both of us, I'm sure. I'm not

the kind of fellow you'd care for with the only affection worth while.

We'd be unhappy if we were married to each other. The time to part ways

is now. Don't you agree with me, Alice?"

"I certainly do!" There was a tiny note of desperation in her voice;

she had tried to make up, and failed. "I don't wonder at your

forgetting me so easily," she went on. "You fell in love with me so

easily, you know."

"Yes. I'm twenty-four. I felt the real need of the fine, understanding

companionship of a good woman. You were the only young woman I knew

intimately; I'd studied almost day and night trying to make up for a

youth that had been entirely lost, so far as education was concerned,

and I hadn't time to be a sociable fellow. I didn't stop to consider

whether we'd be suited to each other--you were so pretty, you know,

Alice."

[Illustration]

"Thanks!" with stinging sarcasm. "But I'm fading now--am I?"

"I think you'll always be pretty," he said very seriously.

She looked backward and laughed at him scornfully. "But the impossible

Miss Singleton----"

"She's not impossible," interrupted Wolfe, who was now somewhat

incensed. "In fact, she's one of the finest specimens of humanity I've

ever met."

Without another word, Miss Fair hurried on and overtook her father.

Suddenly a hand was placed lightly on Wolfe's arm from behind. He

stopped and faced about, and confronted a slender, but well-rounded

figure, a feminine figure in dark blue. It was Tot Singleton, and she

was trembling violently.

"I overheard--I eavesdropped!" she whispered nervously. "I feel mean

about it, Little Buck, and I wanted to tell you for my conscience's

sake. To--to think that you, after the way I treated you this

afternoon, would take up for me to Miss Alice! It hurts, and I'm

ashamed o' myself. Please forgive me, if you can, will you?"

He took both her hands and pressed them warmly. The touch gave him a

comfortable thrill. "Forget it!" he smiled.

"You're so nice to me," she cried softly. "But you're mistaken in

what you told Miss Alice. I'm little, and mean. I'm just beginnin' to

l'arn about myself. I'm a-findin' that half o' the fruit o' the tree

o' knowledge is _tears_. Listen, will you--mountain dialect again! I

wonder if I'll ever quit thinking in it? Understand me, Little Buck;

I'm not exactly ashamed of the mountain dialect."

Wolfe laughed. "You can't go all the way at one leap, Tot, of course;

be patient, and keep trying!"

"In some ways, I'm worse than I used to be," she said dejectedly. "I've

got so afraid of the dark that it was easy enough for me to make myself

believe that I kept close to you and Miss Alice because I didn't dare

to stay far enough behind to be out of hearing. I wasn't afraid of the

night when I lived back here in these hills. I wonder a lot about that,

Little Buck. Maybe it was because I was a part of the night myself

then!"

Wolfe looked at her with increased interest. She was beginning to show

new facets. There was something quite wonderful about her.

"I'll be falling in love with you, Tot," he told her, "the very first

thing you know."

"That's not likely," laughed Tot.

She hurried past him, and soon disappeared around a sharp bend in the

narrow trail.

Wolfe walked on rapidly, and overtook the rest of the party just as the

deep music of the dog's baying fell upon the chilly air.

The voice of Alex Singleton boomed out, "By the Eternal, ef he hain't

treed a'ready! Treed by sight! Hold the 'possum, Rock! Hi, thar,

Rock--don't ye lose him! Good old dawg, Rock!"

"I'll be durned ef this here hain't good luck," said Granny Wolfe.

"Light out atter him, Alex!"

They followed their guide, who turned to his right and picked his way

through a copse of laurel, and drew up at a persimmon tree laden with

frost-bitten fruit. Singleton kept his lantern swaying behind him,

while his alert gaze searched the branches of the tree for a pair of

round and glistening black eyes. He wished he had a good pine torch!

"I see him!" he cried finally. "Le's hide the lights onder our hats,

Mr. Fair, and everybody look right in the tiptop o' the tree."

They saw between them and the starry sky a round, dark bulk that

was as motionless as the mountain under their feet. The old hillman

passed his lantern to Colonel Mason, sat down, and removed his boots.

A few minutes, and he had climbed to a point within ten feet of the

persimmon-eater.

"Look out below thar!" he shouted.

He began to shake the uppermost branch with both hands. There was a

sudden dull thump on the ground below. With a yelp of delight, the

spotted dog dashed forward and seized the little animal by the throat.

The opossum stiffened, and feigned death perfectly, but the hound was

not one whit deceived. Alex Singleton climbed down, tied a stick in the

'possum's mouth to prevent its sharp teeth doing damage, pulled on his

boots, rose and led the others proudly to another persimmon. For one

night, old Alex was king.

The sport kept up until midnight, when Colonel Mason suggested that

they return to the basin.

Just as those on the flat were settling themselves for the run, just as

Wolfe was reaching for the throttle-lever, there came tearing through

the stillness the dull but mighty roar of the sawmill whistle. It was

somehow like a death-knell. It blanched the cheeks of every member of

the party. The long blast died out in its own echoes. Then there came

a short blast that ended abruptly; it was as though the hand that had

held the whistle-cord had been suddenly stricken down.

Wolfe opened the throttle as far as he dared. With the other hand he

opened the valve to the sandbox.

When they had covered three miles, a voice from the flat ahead sent

tremors to Wolfe's heart. The voice said but one small word, but that

one small word meant destruction.

"_Fire!_"

Fire, when the fine, new mill had run but half a day!

It was a cataclysm.

XVII

Soon the now thickly overcast heavens became lighted everywhere ahead

by a lurid, blood-red glow. It was evident that the conflagration was

great and steadily growing. Granny Wolfe knelt on the lumber flat,

turned her seamed and troubled face toward the Omnipotent, and begged

that a rain might come and put to rout the element that is at once

mankind's best friend and worst enemy. The rest of the party kept

grimly silent.

When the little locomotive pushed its one car through the jaws of

Devil's Gate and into the basin, those on board were greeted by a

spectacle that was nothing less than appalling. Every one of the deep

and finely-timbered coves was a raging furnace of dead leaves, dead

wood, and resinous pine, which were as dry as tinder. The big mill

itself was a raging furnace. It was already too late for any rain

except a cloudburst to save anything whatever. The devastation promised

to be complete within a very short time.

[Illustration]

"This is the end," Wolfe kept saying bitterly to himself. "This is the

end of it all."

The locomotive and its flat came to a jarring, grinding halt a hundred

yards from the burning mill, and the hunting party alighted. The

"furriners" of the mill crew, most of the Singletons, and the women

and children of the Wolfes were gathered together before the blazing

plant in an awed, helpless mass of humanity. The children were crying

with fear; some of the women were sobbing aloud; the men were pale and

silent.

Weaver, the foreman, and Nathan Wolfe, the watchman, hurried to meet

the party that had just arrived. The watchman was burned about the

hands and face and arms; his clothing was scorched and blackened and

torn.

"Well?" the general manager said unsteadily.

The foreman looked toward Nathan Wolfe, then turned his face away.

Nathan Wolfe gulped, and tears began to sting in the broken blisters of

his cheeks.

"Here's how it was, Little Buck," he said in a shaken drawl. "A fire

was started up in every cove, it seemed to me, at about the same time.

As soon as I seed it, I made a streak fo' the whistle-cord. Somebody

slipped up and grabbed me from ahind o' me, and throwed me down hard.

This man was half-drunk, but he was as strong as a bear all the same,

and I jest couldn't git loose to save my life. Three other men carried

bucket atter bucket o' mile-ile upstairs, and poured it out, and 'en

set it afire. When the ile it was a-burnin' good, the big man he le' me

go.

"I tried awful hard to put the fire out, Little Buck, but I jest

couldn't do it. The water I throwed on the burnin' ile didn't do

nothin' but spread the fire. Then I made fo' the whistle-cord ag'in,

and this time I got to it. I'd done blowed one long blow, and was

a-startin' to blow ag'in, when the same man 'at grabbed me afore

grabbed me and throwed me out o' the ingyne-room door and kep' me out.

Mr. Weaver and them 'ar other furriners they run in then, but they

met about twenty men wi' clubs, and they couldn't do nothin'. And

purty soon it was too late to even try to save anything. Was the mill

inshored, Little Buck?"

"The insurance men were to be out tomorrow," Little Buck Wolfe answered

hoarsely. "They'd refused the risk twice before. But you didn't tell me

who set the mill and woods on fire, Nathan."

"I hates to tell ye, Little Buck," sadly, "but you're plum' shore to

find it out anyhow. It was our own people. They must ha' broke jail. It

was pap who grabbed me the twicet, and it was Unc' Brian Wolfe and our

brother Oliver and Cat-Eye Mayfield who carried the ile upstairs and

set the mill afire. The whole outfit of 'em was a-drinkin' hard."

Young Wolfe straightened under this, the greatest blow of his life,

and folded his arms across his deep, broad chest. He stared toward the

furnaces that lighted the whole of the basin as bright as noonday and

roared as though they were Gehennas filled with lost souls; his hopes

were all in those fires and burning, burning to gray ashes. Everything

was gone. The Masons were left practically penniless in their old days;

it was this, perhaps, that hurt him most--he could have wept over it.

There had come to his whitened countenance a look that kept away even

those of his friends and kinsmen who loved him best.

Suddenly there appeared from the bush to the eastward the Wolfe clan

and Cat-Eye Mayfield. They reeled a little, and they were full of

defiance. The Wolfes were now armed with rifles, which they had taken

from their homes after their womenfolk and children had gone to the

burning mill. They halted a few rods from the awed multitude. Their

leader, staggering for the first time under alcoholic influence, shook

his great fist toward the man who was losing most, and lifted his

Goliath voice in tones of black triumph:

"Who wins now?"

The son did not even appear to be aware that the father had addressed

him. There fell a silence that the noise of the nearby hungry flame was

scarcely able to dissipate. Now no woman sobbed; no child wept.

"Who wins now?" the giant mountaineer repeated.

At last Little Buck Wolfe turned his head and looked toward his

half-drunken father. A great deal of the suffering left his face, and

a pity that was akin to the divine shone from his eyes. The old clan

chief went pale in spite of himself. Came at that moment an old voice

that seemed to hang in the air, like the smoke of incense----

"'_And they bring him unto the place Golgotha, which is, a-bein'

interp'eted, The place o' a skull._' Saint Mark; fifteen, twenty-two."

Like a John the Baptist out of the wilderness, Grandpap Singleton, the

Prophet, stepped before them. Until this moment, his people had not

seen him since the time of the mill's starting. His mind was almost

completely broken. His snow-white head was bare, and his lean face was

strangely haggard. In one hand he carried a dark, round object that the

others did not then recognize for the pitiful, tragic thing it was.

He went to a point close beside the young man whom his good old heart

had loved so truly and so well. He stretched one of his long, thin arms

toward Picketts Dome, which stood out plainly in the fire's light and

in bold relief against the red, red heavens. The others looked, and saw

on the summit of the peak a great ironwood cross. He had erected it

there in the hope that his children and the children of his children

might see it when temptation assailed them, and not forget.

[Illustration]

"Finish it!" he cried to Old Buck Wolfe, and it was a terrible

condemnation. "Finish it! Loose the silver cord, and break the golden

bowl--break the pitcher at the fountain, and the wheel at the cistern!

Take this good man, yore own flesh and blood, up thar and nail him hand

and foot. Spit upon him, and give him vinegar and gall to drink when he

axes fo' water. Pierce his side, and cast lots fo' his clothin'. Finish

it!"

The demented patriarch held up the dark, round object he had brought.

It was a crudely woven crown of thorns. He pressed it down upon the

brow of Little Buck Wolfe, the Arnold Mason that was, who stood as dumb

and as motionless as a tree; and if the thorns that sent several tiny

drops of blood trickling down the pallid face gave pain, there was not

the least sign of it.

Save for the Wolfe clan, Cat-Eye Mayfield and Whitney Fair, the

multitude groaned at the sight. It was eerie, and it was also somehow

holy. Tot Singleton sank to her knees and sobbed aloud. The Wolfe clan,

and even Cat-Eye Mayfield, became suddenly sober. Old Buck shuddered.

Long forgotten things were gripping his soul and making him ashamed of

himself. He dragged a tremulous, grimy hand across his forehead and

started slowly, drawn irresistibly, toward the best of his five sons;

and his footsteps led him all too near the burning plant.

Young Wolfe removed the chaplet of thorns from his brow, and put it

down at his feet.

"It makes me afraid," he muttered; "it makes me afraid," and he went to

meet his father.

Then the great, hot smokestack swooped downward with a mighty swishing

roar. It was Little Buck who saw Old Buck's imminent danger first.

He leaped forward, shouting, "Out of the way! Run! Quick!"

His father stopped as though the words had paralyzed him. He appeared

to be unaccountably dazed. The great stack loosened a beam from the

roof which flew out and struck him across his shoulders, and bore him

to the ground on his face.

"He'p me!" he screamed smotheredly. "I'm a-burnin' to death--he'p me,

fo' God's sake!"

Every man of those present dashed toward him. There was no time to be

lost in looking for levers; if the wheels of fate were to be cheated,

bare hands must lift the smoldering beam; human flesh must voluntarily

be seared.

"Drag him out, Little Buck, when we raise; all together, boys--go to

it!" Alex Singleton bellowed.

They went to it all together, Wolfes and Singletons face to face and

shoulder to shoulder, and there rose the sickening scent of scorched

flesh. Little Buck Wolfe dragged his father's giant figure to safety.

The others dropped the searing beam and ran. A blazing wall fell and

hid the spot where Old Buck had lain.

"His pore back!" wept Granny Wolfe. "It's all burnt and blistered! He'p

me to take him home, Nathan, honey. Will ye go home, Buck, pore boy?"

And her favorite son answered weakly, "I'll go anywhar ye wants me to

go, mother. Fo' because I'm already in hell."

It began to rain then. It was a slow, drizzling rain that could have

saved nothing, had it begun hours before.

XVIII

Ten minutes after the slow rain set in, the grounds about the almost

consumed building were deserted save for the general manager. Wolfe

had not been able to leave the thing that had been his palm of victory

and the pride of his heart. Colonel Mason and a number of others had

insisted upon his seeking shelter, to no avail; they had then insisted

upon remaining with him, but he wouldn't permit it. He walked slowly

and alone, like a sentinel upon his beat, and watched the flames die

down and leave a great pile of glowing coals and red-hot, twisted iron

and steel. When finally he turned toward the house he had built for his

father, he was wet to the skin.

Just as he left the dimming red glare, there came to his ears a dull

rumbling that was like an explosion of dynamite. He paid little

attention to it then, though he remembered it vividly enough afterward.

[Illustration]

Already he had decided upon a course for the future. He would go to

one of the lumbering districts of the Northwest, and establish himself

there; he would pay back, the Masons first, every cent of the money

that had been lost in the ill-starred Unaka Lumber Company. It would

require the best part of his life, perhaps, but he would do it. It

should be his one purpose.

Whitney Fair met him on the new house's veranda. They were about to

pass, when Fair said gruffly, "I'll take the key to the office door, if

you please."

Wolfe frowned. He knew why Fair was going to the office. The wonder of

it was that Fair had not demanded the key sooner. He meant, of course,

to telephone Sheriff Starnes at Johnsville, and notify him of the

outrageous doings of the escaped prisoners.

"The key, if you please!" Fair growled.

In no heart are the ties of blood stronger than in the mountain heart.

Wolfe drew back. His kinsmen had wronged him deeply, it was true, but

they were still his kinsmen. They hadn't had the advantage that had

been his.

He took the key from his pocket, and gave it over. There was, plainly,

nothing else to do. Anyway, he told himself, the chances were that the

jail delivery had already become known, and Sheriff Starnes and his

posse were perhaps even then on their way out to the basin. Whitney

Fair turned the collar of his greatcoat up close around his neck, and

hastened toward the crude little office.

Wolfe entered the new house without rapping. There was a cheery log

fire in the living-room. Old Buck Wolfe, his blistered back bandaged,

sat very straight on a couch.

"Where are the others?" his son asked.

"I run 'em out," sourly.

"Why?"

"I wanted to be by my lowdown self, damn it," answered the old

mountaineer. "Whose fine dwellin' is this here?"

"Yours and mother's. I built it for you."

Old Buck nodded thoughtfully. "That's what they told me, but I jest

couldn't believe it was the truth to save my life. And whose fine

fiddle is that up 'ar on the mantel?"

"Yours. I bought it for you."

Old Buck cleared his throat. "That's what they told me, but I jest

couldn't believe it. I figgered you'd got married to Alex Singleton's

Tot and lived here wi' her. Hadn't ha' been fo' them Singletons, I

reckon I'd ha' done been burnt to a cinder; wouldn't I?"

"There's no doubt of it," promptly.

"Little Buck," the father said with striking earnestness, "no man

cain't be the same atter he's look death in the eyes, and tasted of it,

like I've done tonight. Death it showed me things. Death and the cross

and the crown of thorns. I'm a-tellin' ye, son, a man can shorely live

a whole etarnity in his one dyin' minute--though I'm no coward, and

don't ye fo'git that. I reckon I been the meanest, lowdownest polecat

'at ever lived, hain't I?"

"I guess not." Wolfe the younger turned his face away. "There are worse

men than you."

Silence fell between them. Old Buck's fifth son then went gloomily to

the semi-darkness of the veranda, and dropped into a chair.

After what seemed a very long time to Little Buck Wolfe, a slim

feminine figure, in clothes that were wet and bedraggled, ran through

the gateway, ran up to him, and put a hand rather hard on his shoulder.

"Tot!" he exclaimed. "Where've you been, Tot?"

"I followed Mr. Fair," breathlessly. She dropped to her knees beside

his chair and went on, "He told Sheriff Starnes everything over

the phone. They'd already found out about the escape, and Deputy

Sheriff Howard Cartwright'll be here with a posse before very long.

And--listen! The office safe has been dynamited and robbed! Mr. Fair

found your gloves and flashlight lyin' on the floor, Little Buck, and

he thinks you did it! He thinks that's why you stayed behind. He told

the sheriff it was you. Oh, I'm so sorry; it seems that the--the Lord

is tryin' to see how much you can bear!"

"I heard the explosion that opened the safe," Wolfe told Tot. "How I

wish I'd investigated then!"

[Illustration]

He felt through one of his pockets after another. Both gloves and

flashlight were gone.

"I must have left them in the locomotive's cab," he reasoned aloud,

"and some ransacker found them. Afterward the ransacker found the

dynamite in the tool-house, and the safe in the office. It all fits in

very nicely, Tot."

"Yes. How much money was there in the safe?" she asked.

"Twenty-eight hundred."

He went to his feet, and at that instant his father appeared on the

veranda. Old Buck walked slowly and with considerable pain. He had

overheard the conversation between his son and the daughter of old Alex

Singleton.

"The fire it was all my fault," he confessed. "Ef it hadn't ha' been

fo' me, nothin' wouldn't ha' been set afire at all. I headed the whole

thing, me and a kag o' licker did. Tot, I want you to go and tell

Oliver and Brian and the others 'at they must light a rag out o' here

and keep from a-bein' arrested. Tell 'em to go away back to the Balsam

Cone section. Their wimmenfolks and children can foller 'em atter a

little while. I made this here debt, and I'll pay it all myself. Tell

'em that, Tot, please."

Tot Singleton looked questioningly toward Little Buck, who said no

word, gave no sign.

"Please, Tot," the old hillman begged, "go and tell Oliver and Brian

and the rest what I said. The debt it's all mine, and I hain't a-goin'

to let nobody else pay none of it. Please go, Tot!"

"Must I?" Tot whispered to Little Buck.

She had no answer whatever. After half a minute of waiting, she

disappeared in the rainy night.

A quarter of an hour afterward, the clan stole hurriedly up to its

leader. Old Buck asked them to go while there was yet time. But they

would not agree to it. They wouldn't be yellow. One man should not pay

all of the debt to the law.

"Ef you'd jest go along wi' us, Buck," finally said Brian Wolfe, "then

we might go."

"But I cain't hardly walk!" Old Buck exclaimed. "I'd be nothin' but a

drawback and dead weight on ye. Go on, boys! You cain't resk a-bein'

sent to the State penitenchy, a-leavin' yore famblies to make their own

way; don't ye see? It hain't fair to 'em! Yore fust duty lays to yore

wimmenfolks and children, boys; hain't ye got hoss sense enough to know

that much?"

Little Buck Wolfe caught his strapping brother Oliver by the shoulders

and shook him.

"You've got to do it, Oliver," he said hoarsely. "I'll hide him--"

he pointed to his father, and looked covertly toward the open front

door--"somewhere; and when he's able to travel he can follow the rest

of you to the Balsam Cone country. You've got to do it!"

"Atter the way we treated you?" Oliver Wolfe's voice was almost

pathetic. "You'll shorely hide him?"

"I certainly will. You'd better hurry, or it'll be too late, Oliver."

Not until they were gone did Little Buck Wolfe realize fully just what

he had done. He had put himself into the place of an accessory to the

crime of arson, and he was liable to almost as much punishment as the

principals themselves! The thought was staggering to him. He began to

pace the veranda floor nervously.

Tot Singleton appeared before him. She understood fully. She strove to

make him feel that he had but done right.

"Don't feel so blue about it, Little Buck," she said to him gently.

"What else could you do? Their families need them more than the prison

needs them. They're as sorry now as the penitentiary ever could make

them. Besides, the mountain man can't stand imprisonment for long;

most of 'em wouldn't live through the fifteen years--that's what I

understood Mr. Fair to say it would be. You m-mustn't worry, Little

Buck!"

Wolfe stepped to his father and took him by the arm.

"We must go," he whispered. "Cartwright will soon be here. I must have

you hidden before he comes. We must go!"

"I guess," Old Buck demurred, "I'd better let Cartwright have me."

"No! Let's go--for mother's sake. You must think of her, and not of

yourself. You've been too unkind to her in the past." He was fairly

dragging his sire toward the steps. "Quick--we must be quick. Fair may

come back at any minute, and he--let's go!"

Old Buck permitted his son to lead him out of the yard and away in the

murky drizzle.

A bleak, gray dawn was slowly breaking over the scene of black

desolation when the two men arrived at a small-mouthed cavern in the

side of the Big Blackfern. The elder of the pair squeezed himself

through the rocky opening with some difficulty. The other placed a

great flat stone over the hole, and almost ran back to the new house to

tell his mother and the Masons and Tot Singleton good-by; he meant to

start for the far-away Northwest immediately.

[Illustration]

Whitney Fair met him at the gate. Fair had discovered that every man of

the escaped Wolfes had disappeared; he was purple in the face, and his

small, pale-blue eyes glittered like those of an angry animal.

He seized one of the lapels of Wolfe's coat and cried savagely, "You'll

pay for this! You warned them, and that makes you as guilty as they

are--give me the money you took from the safe!"

"I didn't take any money from the safe," Wolfe replied with a level

calmness that surprised even himself.

"You did!"

"Be careful, Mr. Fair!"

Whitney Fair went ashen instead of purple. "And there are some other

things against you, too," he fumed. "You had an agreement by which you

were to have this land for a pittance an acre when the sawing was done;

you drew your salary for--er, more than a year in advance. Oh, but I'll

have the net around you good and hard before you know what's happened!

Hand that money right back, you thief!"

There was a quick step behind him. Colonel Mason, tall, patrician, and

now white, caught his arm.

"Let him go, sir!" the colonel ordered hotly. "He is no thief--and

anybody that says he is, sir, lies outright!"

Fair sniffed like a disgusted hound. "Meaning that I have lied

outright, Colonel?"

"Exactly that," the old Southerner said quickly. "If the shoe doesn't

fit, take it off!"

The cleft in Whitney Fair's chin deepened in a black scowl. He swore.

He took his right hand from Wolfe's coat lapel, tore his arm from

Colonel Mason's grip, and struck Colonel Mason in the chest----

The world turned as red as blood to Little Buck Wolfe. He couldn't

stand idly by and see the man who had been to him a better father

than his own father thus brutally mistreated. He went at Fair like a

combination of cyclone, pile-driver and battering-ram and, with his two

fists pounded Fair until his coarse face was almost unrecognizable. The

worsted man sank dazedly to the wet ground.

"The next time you feel like striking anybody that's seventy-five

pounds lighter and twenty years older than you," advised Wolfe, "be

sure that there's no son of his near to take his part."

He led the colonel aside, and took him by the hand.

"I'm going away," he whispered, and he hastily explained why. "You can

see that the evidence is big against me, and I can't possibly spare the

time that it would take to spend a term in prison. I'll write when I

think it's safe. Tell my two mothers and Tot good-by for me. I----"

Strong man that he was, he had choked. Colonel Mason choked, too.

"Son," he whispered thickly, "be careful when you write. Fate has left

nothing undone, it seems--Fair is soon to be appointed postmaster

at Johnsville! But you don't owe us anything, Arnold, my boy. We

are willing to accept life's brimming cup of bitterness along with

life's honey-sweetness. It was not your fault, certainly! But I must

admit that the case against you looks bad, for Fair is undoubtedly

influential, and you really had better get out from under. Good luck to

you, and God be with you always----"

He was unable to say more. Mrs. Mason and Old Buck Wolfe's wife ran

toward them from the house. The two women had seen and overheard much;

they had easily guessed the truth. Wolfe embraced them tenderly, and

kissed them on the cheek with reverence. Then he tore himself from

their arms, and went rapidly toward the foot of scarred Lost Trail

Mountain.

Once behind the border of burned and blackened laurels that stood

along the edge of the basin's bottom, he noted that the slow rain had

ceased, and halted and looked back. He could see the long, strong

arm of the law, in the shape of the doughty Deputy Sheriff Howard

Cartwright and a posse, coming by way of Devil's Gate!

Wolfe ran toward the other end of the basin, keeping always behind the

border of blackened laurel. Before he had covered half a mile, he met

Alex Singleton and his son, Fightin' Lon. Both the Singletons wore

thick bandages over their palms. They questioned Wolfe anxiously, and

he told them all there was to tell.

"You shorely can't slip out o' the basin now," declared old Alex. "That

man Cartwright, I knows him. He used to be a revenuer. He's got eyes

like forty hawks; they say he never fails to bring in his man. Better

stay hid in the basin untel tomorrow night, anyhow, Little Buck. I'll

hide ye in the apple-hole onder my cabin floor, and they cain't never

find ye thar! Come on wi' me--quick."

The fugitive was hidden among bushels and bushels of green and yellow

pippins. The boards were put back into place above him, and a crude

table was dragged over the spot. Lying down there under the floor, he

heard Alex Singleton and his son take chairs to the front doorway and

sit down noisily. He heard stout Mrs. Singleton whistling one of her

old-fashioned hymns in the lean-to.

[Illustration]

A long hour afterward, there came to his sensitive ears sounds made by

the tramping of dozens of human feet and ironshod hoofs.

Cartwright accosted the Singleton leader sharply. "Seen any o' the

Wolfes?"

"Seed 'em all last night at the fire," quite readily, "and I seed

Little Buck a-runnin' toward the Lost Trail from his pap's new house

somethin' like a hour and a half ago."

The deputy then demanded pointedly, "Are any of them here?"

It had become, after a fashion, a battle of wits. Alex Singleton rose

in the doorway.

"Howard Cartwright," he almost roared, "d'ye thing fo' a minute 'at

I'd have little enough sense to hide anybody from the law? I hain't

a-hankerin' atter the penitenchy sence I've seed the inside of it, and

le' me tell ye that. But ef you think I'm a-lyin', s'arch my house and

satisfy yoreself!" It was adroit.

The posse had already surrounded the cabin. Cartwright entered and

looked carefully in the loft, under the beds, in the two big chimneys

of stone--everywhere but in the apple-hole.

He apologized after he had finished searching the premises. They told

him that it was entirely and absolutely all right. Mrs. Singleton even

stopped her everlasting whistling long enough to tell him that it was

all right.

XIX

Old Buck Wolfe found the darkness stifling. He crept back to the

cavern's narrow mouth, rested himself on an elbow, and looked through

a small aperture. He watched his son whip Fair. He watched his son bid

the Masons and his mother good-by, and run toward Lost Trail Mountain.

He saw the minions of the law enter the basin, saw them searching, saw

them go away empty-handed, and because they had gone empty-handed, a

slow, pale smile of triumph spread over his bearded face.

But the smile did not last. His keen gaze soon picked out a tall and

powerful figure in officer-blue that was sneaking back on foot along

the fire-blackened side of the Lost Trail. Deputy Sheriff Cartwright,

who had never failed to bring in his man, had not yet given up; he hid

himself at a point that commanded a fair view of the whole basin, and

began to wait with the patience of Job.

Everything was so very still now. Not a breath of air was stirring.

The clouds had lifted somewhat, and Old Buck Wolfe's gaze came to

rest on the great ironwood cross that poor Grandpap Singleton, the

broken-minded, had erected on the summit of majestic Picketts Dome

as a reminder to his people. The same queer, shuddery feeling that

had assailed the chief of the Wolfes the night before now gripped him

again. Between him and the sacred emblem of life and death the misdeeds

of his past stood up like the spirits of gaunt, grim, evil giants.

Finally a sense of utter shame overpowered him, and he wiped at his

eyes with a big, blue bandana. Words out of the mouth of Grandpap

Singleton, the Prophet, came back to him forcefully, and brought him

face to face with his own soul:

"_To them as thinks the' ain't no God, the' ain't none, so far as

they're concerned._"

His lips jerked, then moved stiffly.

"Who but a All-Pow'ful Bein' could ha' made the sun and the moon and

the stars and the world? These things had to have a beginnin', shorely.

They never jest happened. Sech big things as them cain't jest happen.

From this day on, I'm mebbe a-goin' to do my little argyin' on t'other

side o' the fence."

The clouds lowered, like a broad, feathery blanket dropped from the

skies, and the ironwood cross was hidden from his sight.

[Illustration]

By nightfall he was very hungry. He had eaten nothing since his last

meal in the jail at Johnsville. But he bore it with fortitude, and

in his uncouth way tried to be thankful for the tiny stream of water

that trickled out of a crevice in the rocks a few yards behind him.

The long, dark hours dragged by, and midnight came. Still no one had

come to bring him food. He stretched himself out on his side, with his

great, shaggy head pillowed on a forearm, and went to sleep.

When morning dawned, he crept to the aperture and peered through

cautiously. He saw nothing of Howard Cartwright, but that fact was

not proof that the officer had quit the watch. The chances were that

Cartwright had only changed positions.

The day passed, and night fell again, and still Old Buck Wolfe had had

nothing to eat. He was ready to run any ordinary risk to satisfy his

gnawing hunger now. He put his hands against the flat stone that his

son had placed over the narrow mouth of the cavern, and overturned it.

Another minute, and he was standing beside an upright, charred shaft of

wood that had been a fine yellow poplar tree. Something drew his gaze

upward; he saw millions of frosty, brightly-twinkling stars--promises,

Grandpap Singleton had called them.

He began to move slowly and soundlessly down toward the deep gash that

had hidden for so long his moonshine still. Save for its upper edges,

this little hollow had escaped the fire.

Then a big, dark form stepped suddenly before him, and a voice that

he recognized instantly inquired in low and guarded tones, "Buck, old

feller, is that you?"

Old Buck choked back an oath that had come unbidden to his tongue. Had

not Alex Singleton helped to save him from death in the worst of all

its shapes, death by burning?

"Yes, Alex," he answered in a small voice, "it's me. I'm mighty nigh

it starved plum' to a shadder. I jest had to git out, Alex, and try to

find me somethin' to eat."

"Now le's be awful keerful," Singleton whispered. "Le's go to the cave,

Buck."

Wolfe led the way in. Singleton followed close behind him. The two

groped their way several rods back into the pitchy darkness before they

stopped.

"I'd ha' done brung ye somethin' to eat, Buck," old Alex said, as they

sat down together, "ef Cartwright hadn't ha' been a-watchin' so hard.

Here, take this here basket; it's got three fried chickens, half of a

whole b'iled hawg ham, and a big pone o' cawnbread in it. And take this

here cawfee-pot; the cawfee's all sweetened and ready. Tot she fixed

it all up fo' ye, Buck, and the cawfee's got a tear in it--damned ef I

didn't see it drap, myself. Now, old feller, eat ontel ye blamed nigh

bust, ef ye wants to!"

Wolfe took the basket of food and the pot of coffee with an eagerness

that was wholly pitiful.

"Alex," he said tremulously, "I'm so glad to git this here grub 'at I'd

ax the blessin' ef I jest knowed what to say. Would you mind a-doin' it

fo' me, Alex? I'll sartainly be obleeged to ye."

"Shorely, I will," Singleton agreed gladly.

Old Wolfe ate ravenously, while his companion explained, "Yore folks'd

ha' fetched ye somethin' to eat afore now, Buck, but they didn't know

whar ye was at. Little Buck never had much of a chanst to tell 'em,

I guess. But he told me, and I'm a-goin' to take keer of ye. Little

Buck he's in a tight place now, as sartain as hell's hot. Robbin' the

safe, he'pin' you men git away from the law, assault and batt'ry on Mr.

Fair--dang it, they'll pen him fo' life ef they ketch him! But they

ain't likely to ketch him, Buck."

The food in Wolfe's mouth began to taste like wood. He rose there in

the cavern's darkness, and made an odd noise in his throat.

"Pore boy--he liked me so much 'at he even named hisself atter me," he

choked. "And me--I've treated him like a dawg. Alex, I want ye to do me

a big favor. Will ye do it?"

Singleton nodded in the pitchy gloom. "I promise, o' course. Anything

on earth."

"Then," Old Buck said shakily, "I want ye to git a mule-killin' hick'ry

club, and beat me mighty nigh it to death on my sore back fo' a-bein'

what I've been and a-doin' what I've done. Hurry, Alex. I look to ye to

keep yore promise."

"I won't do it!"

"You shorely wouldn't be a liar fo' me, Alex!" surprisedly.

"I'd be a durned sight more'n that fo' you, Buck, old feller!"

"By God!" exclaimed Old Buck Wolfe, amazed. "Whar," he asked a moment

later, "is Little Buck at?"

"He's jest started on foot through the mountains fo' Virginny," the

Singleton leader answered. "He traded me his hoss and saddle and watch

fo' a rifle and two hunderd ca'tridges, two blankets, a supply o'

grub, a fryin' pan and some tools to eat with, and forty dollars in

money. Atter things sawt o' blows over, he'll git on a train thar in

Virginny, and go away off to the No'thwest, whar he's a-goin' to make

his forchune and pay back all 'at was lost in the fire."

[Illustration]

To old Alex, it seemed a very long time before Wolfe spoke again.

"Alex, I want to ax ye about somethin'. It's bothered me a heap. A few

weeks ago, I found a little cross cut in the ground afore my still, and

another one cut in the bark of a tree, and yit another one cut on my

cabin floor. Do ye know how come it them crosses was thar?"

"It was pap," Singleton explained. "He takes spells o' wanderin' in

his mind, ye know. He cut 'em a night or two afore you found 'em, and

them at the still he'd covered wi' leaves so's you wouldn't see 'em

ontel he'd oncovered 'em. Pap is a pow'ful feller to plan ahead, pore

old feller. Well, I'll go now, Buck, but I'll be back at the fust good

chanst. You be keerful!"

When his friend had gone, Wolfe crept out of the cavern to get away

from the tormenting black stillness. The stars were brighter than

ever, and a thin veil of frost had settled down over the ashes of the

great fires. The deep mystery of the mountain night was everywhere; it

awed Old Buck, and for minutes on end he stood as motionless as the

blackened tree-shafts about him. He came to himself with a jerk----

"Robbin' the safe," he mumbled, "he never done it. It was hatched up

ag'in him."

He went down to the little whisky still that his own hands had built

and operated. The mash-tubs and the copper boiler and worm were all

white with frost. He touched the boiler, and felt that it was a

contaminating thing--it stung him. There welled up in his bosom a great

hatred for it.

"It was you," he said bitterly, "'at made me do what I done. And when

I gits through wi' you, you ain't a-goin' to look nothin' at all like

yoreself!"

Old Buck had forgotten that the sheriff's ultra-cunning deputy might be

near him. His injured back, also, was forgotten. He drew an ax from the

cold furnace, and with mighty blows destroyed his false god.

Then he bent his two knees to something that was neither a ginseng

root, a woodchuck's den, nor a moonshine still.

XX

Little Buck Wolfe seemed much like a soldier fitted out in heavy

marching order with his blanket-roll on his shoulder, and his pack on

his back, and his rifle in his hand. He stopped and faced about when he

had reached the crest of the Big Blackfern. The darkness of the night

could not conceal from him the desolation that lay below; he saw it

with his eyes shut! The candles in the cabins of the basin's bottom

glowed like pale yellow stars in the gloom.

He centered his attention upon the light that shone from the nearest

window of old Alex Singleton's cabin, and wondered whether Tot had put

it there as a last pitiful shred of farewell to him. He was glad that

he had kissed her--it had been an act of impulse--when they parted.

The memory of that would be with him, sweet and tender, throughout the

years that he must spend buried in the hardest work before the colossal

debt could be paid in full. He was convinced now that he really loved

Tot Singleton. And he did. He wouldn't have been human if he hadn't. As

for marrying her--there was the debt! He couldn't afford to marry.

It was with a painful swelling of heart and throat that he turned away.

Just then a feminine voice called his name. He halted quickly and

looked around. A slender figure was hurrying up the dim path toward him.

"Tot!" he cried.

"Yes," she panted. "Wait!"

In her hands she carried a rifle. Over one of her shoulders was a

blanket-roll that contained two spare dresses and some other things.

She wore dark-blue, and about her head and neck was a heavy scarf that

Wolfe himself had bought and given her as a birthday present.

[Illustration]

"Where are you going, Tot?" he asked, as she drew up before him.

She hung her head. The butt of the repeater that had been the pride of

her brother Lon's heart dropped heavily to the ground. Wolfe stepped

closer to her, and took one of her hands.

"Where are you going, Tot?" he repeated softly.

She looked up. "I want to go with you!" in a certain desperation, and

more or less tearfully. After all, she was more child than woman.

"But----"

Tot Singleton interrupted, "You'll be lonesome away out there in the

cold Northwest. You'll need me. I can do so many things for you. I can

cook for you, and wash and mend your clothes and keep 'em nice for you,

and--and maybe I can comfort you when the blue days come. I couldn't

ever bear it back here now, knowin' that you was so far away and so

much alone. I--I wa-want you to m-m-marry me and take me with you,

Little Buck! I wanted to ask you when you t-t-told me good-by, but I

just c-c-couldn't----"

It ended smotheredly. She had recited it; she had been saying that

speech over and over to herself all the way up the tortuous side of

the Blackfern. But the simple earnestness of even the recital was one

of the most striking things that had come into the life of Little Buck

Wolfe.

He drew her hand to his breast and caressed it. The action was wholly

involuntary.

"I wish I could take you, Tot," he told her sadly. "I know that I'll

need you in a thousand ways. But because I do love you, I can't cheat

you of the education that is only fairly begun; I can't take you from

the worthwhile things and put half my load on your shoulders. Besides,

I'm a fugitive now, you know. And there'll be real hardship. I'm not

going straight to the Northwest, Tot."

"But you said----"

"Yes," he nodded. "I decided since leaving your father's house that

I'd spend the winter in the wilderness that lies about the head of

Doe River, which is probably the wildest place in America; it is very

rarely that anybody goes in there, even to hunt. You see, Tot, I won't

be safe anywhere out in the world until my so-called crimes"--in spite

of himself, he winced--"are sort of forgotten. And there's another

reason.

"When I was a small boy, Tot, there came to my father's cabin one day

a stranger, a youngish man, who was about ready to die. We gathered

from his delirious talk that he had come to the mountains for his

health. He had with him a funny-looking pointed hammer, and a big

magnifying-glass. Just before he passed out, we caught this from his

babbling--I haven't forgotten a single syllable of it:

"'It's a trick of fate. Wealth--hundreds of thousands--and I've got to

die and leave it all--after having been poor all my life! Fate, old

girl, you're a damned trickster.'

"He had mentioned Doe River Wilderness," Wolfe pursued. "My father

thought he must have found gold there. Not very long after the

stranger's death, my father and my Uncle Brian went to Doe River

Wilderness and spent a few days in a half-hearted search for gold. They

found nothing that even looked like it.

"Of course, Tot, I know that the sick man might have been the victim of

hallucinations. The chances are strong that he was. But as it's best

that I stay hidden for a few months, I may as well try my luck; it

will keep my mind occupied, anyway. So you see, Tot, there'll be real

hardship."

"But you said you loved me," and one of the arms of the innocent

temptress crept slowly around his neck. "If you love me, Little Buck,

Doe River Wilderness will be the finest place in the world to me; it'll

be parad-d-d-dise. And I'd do all I could to make it the finest place

in the world for you, too. I'd rather lie down and die than to stay

behind! Please, won't you let me go?"

Wolfe was entirely human. His resolve began to tremble.

"You might get sick out there," he said uncertainly. "We might not be

able to get a doctor at all."

"I'm never sick, Little Buck," she replied quickly. "As for the

hardship, I'm used to that; what mountain woman isn't? Listen. I sent

Lon to Johnsville for a marriage license, and I've got it here. We can

pass by old Preacher Longley Thrash's cabin, and get him to marry us.

Oh, Little Buck, honey, you must--I just can't stay here now. Why,

I--I'll be your d-d-dog!"

[Illustration]

He stared at her in amazement. She continued.

"If you think I'm oversteppin'--I'd been believin' you loved me; when

you kissed me good-by tonight, I knew it, I knew! I told myself you

didn't ask me to go with you because you loved me too much to ask me;

and that was exactly the way of it. You're lookin' at it wrong. I'll

not stand between you and that old d-debt; I'll help you pay it! Can't

you see, Little Buck, you ol' dahlin'?"

Her rifle fell to the ground. Both her arms were around his neck and

drawing his face down to hers. Among the stars that were mirrored in

her sea-blue eyes was the tenderness that few ever look upon save in

the eyes of young mothers when they behold first their first-born. Her

countenance was enraptured with the spirit of an adoration that was

beyond the understanding of mortals, and that was strong enough to defy

utterly the rules and conventions of the world.

All this he saw, and it wrought the ordinarily warm feeling he had for

her into the grand passion, the great flame that burns never more than

once. He knew that she was his mate, his woman, just as she knew that

he was her mate, her man; he put his arms around her fine shoulders,

and pressed her to him with a fervor that might have frightened another

woman.

"And you'll let me go, won't you?" she rejoiced.

"Let you go?" he laughed. "Why, I'd steal you and carry you off now, if

you didn't want to go!"

She gave the man who was soon to be her husband a folded paper, which

he thrust into an inside pocket. They hastened to the mountaineer

minister's home, and were married. According to his custom, old Longley

Thrash gave them his blessing, an ax, and a side of acorn-fatted,

pepper-cured bacon. Wolfe gave the preacher a banknote.

Because of the hawk-eyed deputy, the couple dared not spend the night

anywhere in the Wolfe's Basin country. It was only after more than four

hours of brisk walking that they stopped under a giant hemlock that

stood beside a dashing creek, and made a bed of boughs and the blankets

they had brought.

* * * * *

Two and a half days were required for the completion of their

exceedingly unusual wedding journey. They were footsore and weary, and

their clothing was somewhat torn, when at last they reached the heart

of Doe River Wilderness.

But their eyes brightened at the sight which greeted them there.

Before them lay an open and level space of half a dozen acres, which

was dotted sparsely with big gray-barked, leafless beeches. In the

very center of it was the source of Doe River, a small lake, or great

spring, of such depth that the water was bluish-black. Wolfe and his

wife went to it, their tired feet swish-swishing in the thin carpet of

brown and yellow beech leaves. Had they known that it was here the iron

chalice--but they couldn't know.

They threw up a temporary shelter of hemlock boughs. On the next

morning, Wolfe set out alone to the eastward, and found his

nearest neighbor at a distance of eight miles. This neighbor, for

a consideration, agreed to go to Conradsville--which was in North

Carolina and twenty-four miles away--for nails, traps, window-lights

and a few other articles. Then Wolfe bought a bag of cornmeal from

the man, promised to return three days later, and hurried back to his

waiting and naturally anxious wife.

Just ten days from the time of their starting their little log cabin,

Wolfe nailed the last split board on the roof and finished the lumpy

stone-and-clay chimney. It was all very crude, of course. The two

narrow doors were made of split-oak slabs; there were but two small

windows; the floor of flat stones was rough and uneven; the few pieces

of furniture were homemade and unsightly. But the man and the woman who

dwelled there loved each other, and were happy in spite of all there

was to make them unhappy, and it was home--that dearest of all earth's

places.

The days stole into the past rapidly, as joyful days always go, and the

last of February came. Wolfe had searched faithfully for the treasure

that the stranger of the long ago had babbled about on his deathbed,

but to no avail; he had found nothing that in any way resembled gold.

The trapping had been good, however, and neighbor Ivins had been

accommodating, and Wolfe had succeeded in saving enough money to take

him and his wife to Oregon in the spring. As for Tot--Tot was a full

blown rose of a woman now, and to her husband, quite properly, the most

wonderful person he had ever known.

One of the last of the winter's snows had just ceased to fall. The

white blanket was nearly a foot in depth on the ground; it lay heavily

upon the branches of the trees. They stood together at one of the small

windows, watching the twilight shadows fall in the forest. The full

moon peeped above the crest of the long, low mountain that formed the

eastern horizon, and heaven's own pure white began to glisten like a

field of diamonds. Over the whole scene hung a silence so deep that

Wolfe and his wife felt that they could touch it, almost, with their

hands.

[Illustration]

"So you're through with the gold hunt," Tot murmured.

Her husband nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "It seems useless to go any

farther with it. If I hadn't known that gold has been found in these

hills now and then for ages, I wouldn't have had the heart to stick to

the search these three and a half months. When this snow is gone, if

you don't mind, Tot, we'll start for Oregon."

"I don't mind, of course," Tot replied dutifully. "Whenever you think

we ought to go, we'll go. Little Buck, the stranger's treasure surely

wasn't gold."

Her surmise was correct!

Wolfe suddenly leaned forward and pulled the mealbag window-curtain

into place, and led his wife from the window. There was a look of mild

concern on his countenance. Tot found herself in the grip of a nameless

fear.

"I saw something glint in the moonlight; it was a gun barrel, I think,"

Wolfe said quietly. "I'll go out and investigate, and I'll let myself

out by the back door; drop the bar into place after me, Tot, and don't

be a bit afraid."

"Do you think it's an officer?" she whispered breathlessly.

He shook his head. "Probably not. But I'll see, anyway."

But there was the possibility that it was an officer, and Wolfe carried

no weapon with him; he would run from the law, but he wouldn't fight

it. He went, stooping low, the instinct of the woodsman strong within

him, across the open space; as noiselessly as a shadow, he stole

along the edge of the forest, going from bush to bush and from tree

to tree, and crept up very near to an angular, slouching figure that

was peering toward the cabin from behind a huge oak. The unknown had

an old-fashioned, single-barreled muzzle-loading shotgun in his hands;

it was a gun that no officer would carry, and Wolfe drew a breath of

relief.

Then the fellow meant mischief. Of that there was no doubt. It angered

Wolfe to see this serpent in his Garden of Eden. He crouched low, and

with a spring like that of a panther landed on the back of the unknown

and bore him to the snow on his face.

"What are you snooping around here for?" he demanded hotly. "Who are

you, anyway?"

He tried to turn the other's face upward. The stranger was strong and

wiry; he kept his countenance hidden very effectively. Wolfe rose,

seized the man by his collar and jerked him to his feet.

"I'll see you, all right," he growled.

The stranger wheeled with all the quickness of a cat, and struck Wolfe

in the chest, staggering him. Wolfe loosed his hold on the man's

collar, and struck out hard. His fist met only the air. The unknown

turned and ran through the deep snow and into the denser shadows of the

woodland, leaving the shotgun lying under the oak. Wolfe followed and

caught the fellow by his ragged coat; there was a tearing sound, and

something that jingled musically dropped to the snow.

The stranger, seeming spurred by a sudden frenzy of fear, doubled his

efforts, ran into a thick copse of underbrush--and escaped.

When Little Buck Wolfe picked up the thing that had dropped with a

musical jingle from inside the lining of the mysterious person's coat,

he was filled with amazement. It was a canvas bag containing more than

twenty-four hundred dollars in banknotes, gold and silver.

The robber who had dynamited the Unaka Lumber Company's safe on the

night of the fire had just slipped through his fingers!

XXI

Wolfe groveled in the deep snow for the old-fashioned shotgun his

antagonist in the struggle of a few minutes before had lost. He found

the long muzzle-loader, and hastened to the cabin's front door. Tot let

him in, and he told her of his little adventure. They sat down before

the wood fire, and counted the money.

"If you were to catch the robber and have him arrested," Tot asked

hopefully, "wouldn't it clear you o' the charge o' stealin' this money?"

"Yes, it would clear me of that. But, you see," and Wolfe frowned, "it

wouldn't wipe out the charges that I am an accessory after the fact to

a felony and--and the other things. Whitney Fair is a hard man, Tot,

and he's shrewd. He'd go to any end to make me smoke, on account of the

beating I gave him. I couldn't risk going back, if that's what you're

thinking about. I believe this would be our best plan:

[Illustration]

"Tomorrow, I'll set out after the robber, and follow him by means of

his track in the snow. I'll catch him, and we'll take him over to

Ivins' place. We'll instruct Ivins to keep him for ten days, and then

turn him over to the sheriff at Conradsville. You and I will steal

into Conradsville, express the stolen money to Colonel Mason, and

immediately afterward board a train for Asheville. In Asheville, you'll

buy two fares for the Northwest, and I'll join you on the train; this

to break possible pursuit. Ivins likes us, Tot, and he won't let our

man talk him into doing anything we don't want done. Eh?"

"You ought to know what's best for us, honey," Tot answered promptly.

"But I'll be anxious while you're gone after the robber. You see, it's

Cat-Eye Mayfield you're goin' after."

"Of course--that is, it's probable."

"And if you're not mighty careful," seriously, "you'll follow him into

a trap of some kind."

Her husband laughed boyishly. "Don't you think I'm capable of matching

wits with Cat-Eye Mayfield?" he said. "I'll have the advantage of being

armed, you know."

Tot poked the fire before she spoke again. Wolfe noted that her now

ruddy face was decidedly troubled.

"It's like fightin' a snake in the dark!" she warned. "Cat-Eye maybe

hasn't got any gun; but he's got the cunnin' of a fox, and the cunnin'

of an Indian, and the cunnin' of a man born to be a killer all in one.

I tell you again, Little Buck, if you're not mighty careful, you'll

follow him into a trap. He knows you'll try to track him down, and

he'll be ready for you. Remember, that man hates you a lot more than

you can ever, ever understand, Little Buck!"

Wolfe laughed at her fears, though in this instance it was she that was

the wiser of the two.

"I'll be careful," he promised.

They took a flat stone from the floor next to the hearth, exposing a

tiny pit beneath. The canvas bag and its burden went into the pit with

their savings money, and the stone was put back into place. Then they

saw that the little cabin's doors and windows were securely fastened,

and retired for the night.

An hour before the coming of the next dawn found them up and busy with

the preparation of breakfast. When Wolfe had eaten, he strapped a full

belt of cartridges around his waist, took up his rifle and his hat and

a bundle of food, kissed his wife fondly and set out on his journey.

The day promised to be clear, but the wind was out of the north and

stinging, biting cold.

The footprints led him in an almost straight line to the southward. The

robber had deviated only that he might avoid a cliff or a dense thicket

of undergrowth. It was very evident that Mayfield, if Mayfield it was,

had traveled with a fair knowledge of the wilderness and with some

goal definitely in view from the start.

The air became even colder as the day wore on. Wolfe was forced to keep

his feet moving at a lively rate, and to frequently beat his gloved

hands together, to prevent frostbite. The snow now had a crust that

impeded his going somewhat, and made his tramping noisy. He began to be

a little nervous because of his everlasting, expectant watching ahead.

Wolfe was not a man who bore suspense easily.

By the middle of the afternoon he had covered, he judged, fifteen

miles. He now found himself in a perfect jungle of tall virgin timber

that would have widened his eyes in admiration had the circumstances

been different; it was spread over a rugged, rocky valley that few men,

except for Cherokee Indians, had ever entered; the very primitiveness

of it was at once both beautiful and terrible. A weird light reigned

between the green of the treetops overhead and the white of the snow

under foot. There was no sound except for the soughing of the wind

through the needles of the gaunt, spectral hemlocks.

It was in here that the man whom Wolfe had been following had made

camp. A pile of coals that were still glowing marked the spot. Wolfe

paused for less than two minutes to warm his hands over the remains of

the unknown's fire, then struck out at a faster gait than ever along

the fresher trail; and he remembered Tot's warning, and tried to keep

his wits about him.

Then he was suddenly confronted by a little canyon, in the bottom of

which flowed a clear and sparkling mountain stream edged with ice. The

footprints of the unknown ended abruptly at the brink. He knelt and

peered over. The snow on the ledges below him had not been disturbed.

His man had crossed, he figured, for there was no backward track--but

how?

[Illustration]

"He didn't fly over!" muttered Wolfe to himself. "And yet----"

Ever suspecting trickery, he searched the thick woodland around him

with his eyes. Everything seemed quite as it should be. Another moment,

and his gaze fell upon a great wild vine that hung within arm's reach

of him; it ran almost to the top of a tall hemlock, and--it had been

cut at a point near the snowy ground.

"I see--" Wolfe smiled--"he swung himself across by means of this!"

It was not an unreasonable conclusion. The distance over was not more

than thirty feet; the vine's first fastening was on a branch fully

twenty yards above. Human destinies sometimes hinge upon the tiniest

things; if Wolfe had but noted that there were no footprints on the

other side of the little canyon, for instance----

He tested the vine; it held his weight with no sign whatever of giving

away. He looked below, and considered; if he fell, he would be hurt:

neither the snow that covered the farther half of the canyon's bottom,

nor the water that covered the nearer half, would keep him from being

hurt if he fell. Therefore, he tested the strength of the vine again.

Again it held his weight without the least sign of breaking or tearing

loose in the tree overhead.

"I should be able to do anything that the other fellow can do," he told

himself.

With that, Wolfe proceeded to fasten his rifle and the bundle of food

to his cartridge-belt. Then he took a firm hold on the vine, stepped

fifteen steps backward, ran forward swiftly, and launched himself out

over the chasm--and the vine parted high in the tree with a sharp snap.

He loosed his grip on it and flung out his arms, turned completely

twice in the air, and landed hard upon the ice-coated stones beside the

rippling creek. A few seconds of spasmodic writhing, a faint moan, and

he lay face-downward, motionless and silent.

Had he been unconscious for long, doubtless he would have frozen.

Perhaps the penetrating chill helped to bring him to. He sat up

dazedly, and dazedly noted that his hat, coat, rifle, cartridge-belt

and rations were gone--and that there were dozens of fresh footprints,

the same footprints that he had been trailing, in the snow about him.

In spite of his watchfulness, he had fallen into a trap very neatly!

Wolfe tried to get upon his feet then. A fiery streak of pain in his

right leg wrung a hoarse cry of pain from him. He dragged himself to

the shelter of a nearby overhanging ledge, and on the way came upon

his bundle of food; it had been torn from his belt in the fall, and

the friendly snow had hidden it from the robber's eyes. He sat up on

the dry earth, and hurriedly took stock of his injuries. His forehead

was bruised and swollen; six inches above his right ankle there was a

fractured bone.

A small heap of driftwood lay nearby. Wolfe took a knife from his

pocket, whittled a few handfuls of shavings from a stick of dry

heart-pine, and started a fire to keep off the bitter cold. When the

wood was burning well, he tied a handkerchief about his throbbing

head, removed his right boot and ripped the trousersleg to the knee,

and bound his injured limb in a set of crude splints. The pain of the

fracture was now as much as he could bear without shrieking.

He stretched himself out on his left side, with his back to the rock

wall. Suddenly he realized that he was staring at the smaller end of

the wild vine. It had been smoothly cut; his man had been waiting for

him in the top of the hemlock that had supported it.

"Of course, that was it!" nodded Wolfe, with a bitter little smile.

"I--I might have known."

Perhaps the robber, thinking him done for, had gone away for good. Then

he would put out the fire, that the smoke from it might not reveal the

fact that he was still alive. Anyway, he must begin dragging himself

homeward. If Tot became so uneasy that she followed him, and something

happened to her--the thought made Little Buck Wolfe's face as hard as a

mask of marble.

But his precaution was for nothing. A pair of opaque, uncanny black

eyes watched him toss the burning wood to the snow. He chanced to look

toward the hemlock above; he saw Cat-Eye Mayfield standing with one

lean shoulder touching the body of the tree. Mayfield wore Wolfe's coat

and hat over his own coat and hat; around his slender waist was Wolfe's

cartridge-belt, and in his hands was Wolfe's repeater.

The two men glared at each other for a full minute without speaking.

Mayfield was proud of his cunning; his villainous triumph was written

over his narrow, dark face and in his lustreless eyes. Wolfe was

defiant, and so full of rage that every nerve and fibre of him

trembled; the veins in his temples stood out and throbbed violently.

"Well?" snapped Wolfe.

"Haw-haw-haw!" laughed Mayfield. "Howdy, and hello! A-judgin' from the

way ye've got that 'ar leg o' yore'n fixed up, Little Buck, I'd say

ye'd missed yore callin'. Ye'd ort to been a doctor, shorely! Ye could

git plenty o' cases o' bots and pip, anyhow--haw-haw-haw!"

Wolfe set his teeth together, and refused to reply. Mayfield became

demoniacally sober, and asked abruptly, "How'd ye like to be shot?"

There was certainly no levity anywhere in the question. Wolfe knew very

well that he was facing the open jaws of death, knew that his life

depended entirely on Mayfield's whim. Mayfield had little to fear. A

man's bones might lie there in that wilderness, bleaching and bare, for

years upon years before they were found. As for Tot--the man beside the

hemlock figured that he could very easily take care of Tot!

[Illustration]

"Have ye got any pa'tickler choice about jest whar ye'd ruther be

shot?" he inquired with tantalizing calmness.

The man below forced himself to speak steadily: "There's no other way

out? You're determined to top it all off with murder; eh?"

"Shorely." Mayfield's opaque eyes narrowed wickedly. "Shorely. I've

lived my whole life to git to this one minute. Ef ye wants to say yore

little 'Now I Lay Me,' git at it!"

Wolfe shuddered in spite of himself, though he bravely kept the other

from seeing it. Death seemed inevitable. If he must go the long, long

way, he would go as nearly without pain as he might; besides, he

believed that a bold front would go farther than anything else toward

saving him--and the wretch should not have the satisfaction of even

suspecting that he was afraid.

"Harm Tot, if you dare--and if a man can rise from his grave I'll

rise from mine," he said quietly. "Let's see whether you can hit my

fingernail, Cat-Eye."

He put the tip of his right forefinger squarely on the center of his

badly-bruised forehead. His hot mountaineer blood was thrumming in his

ears now.

"Hold it thar!" said Mayfield.

Wolfe held it there. Mayfield drew back the rifle's hammer, and began

to take aim without a rest; he was a good enough marksman for that.

Wolfe watched Mayfield as though there was something about the villain

that fascinated him. A minute passed, an eternity in sixty seconds, and

then a spirit of terror seized the man below. The suspense bore down

upon him with a weight that was smothering. He felt that he must cry

out to Mayfield and implore him to put an end to it. But he kept his

lips resolutely closed, and his gaze remained riveted unfalteringly

upon the unwinking black eye beyond the sights of his own repeater.

"Huh!" Mayfield grunted suddenly.

There is no doubt that Wolfe's quite terrible gaze had something to do

with it--Cat-Eye Mayfield lowered the rifle, and shrugged his narrow

shoulders oddly.

"Huh!" he grunted again. "It wouldn't last nigh long enough to suit me,

Little Buck."

The pain in Wolfe's injured limb was greater than ever in that moment,

but he kept from wincing, for he knew that the other would certainly

regard it as an exhibition of fright.

"What do you mean?" he asked sharply.

"Jest what I said; nothin' more, and nothin' less. I'm purty shore I

can fix up somethin' 'at'll beat killin' ye this a-way. Yeuh, I'm purty

dang shore I can."

"Probably," nodded Wolfe.

"Ye see," Mayfield went on devilishly, "I might hatch up some way to

sep'rate you and Tot, or somethin' like that, ye know. Well, I reckon

ye hain't never heerd what happened to yore pap and his outfit atter

you and Tot left the basin, have ye? Ef ye hain't, I'll find big

pleasure in a-bein' the one to tell ye. Hey?"

"What happened to them?"

"Well," and Mayfield caught the repeater into the hollow of an arm and

began to chafe his cold hands, "well, Depity Cartwright he ketched yore

pap on his knees clost to his moonshine still, which same he'd done

tore all to pieces, a-prayin' to beat hell. Cartwright he took off his

hat and waited untel Old Buck was through, when he chased Old Buck

back to his cave whar he'd been a-hidin' at; and fin'ly Cartwright he

ketched yore pap and took him down to the jail at Johnsville. How's

that fo' news, Little Buck; hey?"

"It's news, all right," growled Wolfe. "Anything else?"

"Shorely!" grinned Mayfield. "Well, atter he had Old Buck all tight in

jail, Cartwright--he's a reg'lar heller!--he watched the Wolfe wimmen;

and when they went to their men folks over in the Balsam Cone section,

he follered 'em. And 'en Cartwright he went back to Johnsville and got

up a big posse, and went back and ketched every one o' the rest o' the

clan. How's that fo' news?"

Wolfe had gone ashen. He believed, somehow, that Mayfield had told him

the truth. And Mayfield really had.

"The whole outfit of 'em had a trial," the man beside the hemlock went

on eagerly, "and they was all sent up to the State prison at Nashville

fo' five year!"

That, also, was truth. Violently-suffering Little Buck Wolfe bent his

head in gratitude for the silver lining to the cloud; five years was

not half the sentence usually meted out for the crime of arson. A

beautifully bright spot, too, was the turning of his iron father.

"I reckon you're a-wonderin' why I hain't never caused you to be

ketched by the law, hain't ye?"

Mayfield's voice jarred. Wolfe shook his head.

"Not a bit, Cat-Eye. You're wanted, too, and you've no great wish to

get anywhere near the authorities."

The man above eyed the man below peculiarly for a moment. Then the man

above drawled, "Little Buck, you talk like a book. You look like a

book. And you act like a book!"

Wolfe jumped as though he had been struck. His wife had told him that

word for word one cold evening when they sat at their fireside; but she

had said it admiringly, for she knew it was because he had, as it were,

lived on a diet of books for eight years, so hungry had he been for

education.

[Illustration]

He knew that Cat-Eye Mayfield had eavesdropped at their cabin!

"I didn't tell anybody whar ye was at," said Mayfield. "Acause I had

more ag'in ye 'an the law's got. Little Buck," and the lustreless

eyes had never seemed so diabolical as now, "I've hated you all o' my

life. I've hated ye so long and so much 'at I'm all hate; from the

crown o' my head to the sole o' my feet, I'm all hate fo' you. Every

dawg has his day, ye know. You've done had yore'n. Now I'm a-goin' to

have mine. I'm a-goin' to make you wisht ye'd never been borned. I'm

a-goin' to make ye wisht ye could die!"

Wolfe gave him a silent, unflinching stare. Mayfield continued.

"I hain't got it all planned out yit. But I think I can promise ye one

thing faithf'ly; you hain't never a-goin to set yore two eyes on Tot

Singleton any more."

"You cut-throat!" cried Wolfe.

"And," Mayfield grinned suddenly, "I plum' mighty nigh it fo'got to

tell ye this here:

"Ye know a half a gallon o' licker and a half a gallon o' water makes

a whole gallon o' licker, when a little tobacker or lye is put in it

to stouten it up, don't ye? And it's considered a lowdown trick, as

ye also know. Well, a long time ago, yore pap he sent me up to Alex

Singleton's atter a gallon o' cawn-lightnin' when his still-worm had

friz and bu'sted; and I swiped half o' the licker, and added water

an a big leaf o' tobacker to make out. So when yore pap he found the

tobacker in the jug, he went straight ater old Alex, which was the

startin' o' the fightin' atwixt the Wolfes and Singletons. Some more

news, hain't it? Haw--haw--haw! Well, I guess ye can make it to the

lake in about three days o' good, hard crawlin' like a lizard. So long

to ye, and bad luck!"

He disappeared. The sounds of his footsteps died away quickly, and

there was silence save for the rippling of the creek and the soughing

of the wind among the needles of the hemlocks.

Wolfe's heart was torn afresh with fears for Tot's safety. Mayfield

possessed more cunning than he had been willing to believe; the

plot, whatever it was, would be as black as the Pit and, probably,

successful. Spurred to the highest degree of desperation, Wolfe stuffed

his package of rations inside his shirt, and took a crude crutch

from the pile of driftwood; then he began to make his way slowly and

painfully down the stream. He soon came upon a rotting tree trunk lying

across the creek, and by means of this he went to the other side of the

canyon's bottom and to the base of a series of ledges that promised

escape.

Twenty minutes later, he was crawling determinedly along the path that

his feet and Mayfield's had made in the snow.

That journey through the frozen forest was difficult and terrible. He

was forced to halt occasionally to rest himself, and always he built

a little fire that he might not take cold while his overworked and

trembling muscles were relaxed. He labored on all that night and all

the next day, without stopping more than half an hour at a time. When

there were yet five miles between him and the great spring that Tot had

named "The Lake of Peace," he became utterly exhausted; the physical

machine that was him was fine, but it had reached the limit of its

endurance.

Since it was not humanly possible for him to go farther without rest

and sleep, he made a fire in a sheltered spot and put on wood that

would last for hours. This done, he fashioned himself a thin couch

of laurel branches, collapsed upon it, and at once was wrapped in a

slumber so deep that it was akin to death itself. But vague dreams

tormented him when the first keen edge of his exhaustion was worn off;

he heard Tot calling to him again and again, and he awoke in a fever of

anxiety while it was yet night. He sat up stiffly. He had to go!

When he had eaten the last of the food that his wife had prepared for

him, he took up his brushwood crutch and set out to the northward once

more. He strove hard to make himself believe that Tot had been neither

outwitted nor deceived by the foxlike and dastardly Mayfield. But the

fear would not be driven away.

The middle of the afternoon had come when at last he reached the open

space that lay around the head of Doe River. His heart ached with

apprehension because Tot did not come out to meet him. He opened his

lips to call and couldn't speak her name. Fear had made him dumb.

XXII

Wolfe crumpled on the icy doorstep. With the palm of one of his half

frozen hands he beat against the door. The only answer he had was

the dull rattle of the wooden latch. He struggled upward, seized the

coonhide latch-string, and gave it a nervous jerk. The door creaked

slowly inward. There was no person in the cabin. Wolfe entered on his

hands and knees, reached a crude chair beside the hearth, and drew

himself into it with difficulty.

A fire burned brightly in the wide stone fireplace, and in a corner

of the room lay a little heap of wood with particles of snow still

clinging to it; the cabin had not long been deserted, certainly. After

he had rested for a few minutes, Wolfe went first to the door at the

rear and then to the door at the front, and looked for his wife's

footprints in the snow outside. He recognized only the footprints of

Cat-Eye Mayfield and himself.

[Illustration]

More anxious than ever, he leaned weakly against the jamb, put his

cupped hands to his mouth, and shouted.

"Tot! Tot!"

The rockbound hills sent her name back to him in echoes that were worse

than maddening.

"Tot!" he called again; and again came the echo, _Tot_!

Once more he called, and this time the voice that floated back to

him was a little broken. He felt that he was about to fall. He crept

dizzily to his chair, pushed it closer to the fire and climbed into it,

and put out his hands and feet to warm them.

As the cold's numbness left him, his mind became clearer. He began

to look about him. Tot's spare clothing lay nicely folded on a shelf

beside his own, as usual. Tot's rifle was not in its place over the

smoked log mantel. Every cent of their savings and the other money was

gone. The bed was rumpled badly on one side. A few scattered bits of

food and an unwashed frying-pan on the rough dining-table gave it a

distinctly untidy appearance. These tokens offered Wolfe scant reason

to hope that his wife was safe. All manner of fearful possibilities

came to torture his already over-wrought brain. Perhaps----

His thoughts were broken into rudely by the sounds of masculine

footsteps in the crusty snow beyond the doorstep. A rasping voice began

to sing a snatch of foolish song:

"Sally she had a dream last night;

It was a pow'ful droll one.

She dremp' she had a petticoat

Made o' her mammy's old one!"

Wolfe switched his gaze toward the open doorway. Cat-Eye Mayfield

entered and stamped the snow from his run-over cowhide boots noisily.

In one hand he carried the rusty, old-fashioned, muzzle-loading

shotgun that he had lost a few evenings before.

"And so ye got back, did ye?" he said hoarsely; he was suffering from

a severe cold in his throat. "I told ye it wouldn't take more'n three

days o' good, hard crawlin' like a lizard, didn't I?"

"Where's my wife?" Wolfe demanded.

Mayfield laughed gratingly. It was not forced. Wolfe's anxiety

delighted him. He dropped into the other homemade chair and trained the

shotgun across his lap, straight at Wolfe's face.

"Where's my wife?"

"Now you jest be keerful 'at ye don't start somethin' 'at ye cain't

stop," Mayfield warned, at the same time thumbing back the old

muzzle-loader's hammer. It was a clumsy thing. "I'll tell ye whar yore

wife is at, Little Buck, in my own good time, and not a minute afore;

please git that, will ye?

"I reckon," he went on forthwith, "you're a-wonderin' what I've done

about the rifles and the money, hain't ye? Well, I broke Tot's rifle,

and throwed it in the lake; I hid yore rifle whar I hid the money. This

here old shotgun is all the weapon I want fo' you. I hain't a-wantin'

to kill ye. It would end yore mis'ry too soon. I want ye to suffer a

long time, and I'm a-goin' to make ye suffer a long time! The' hain't

nary grain o' lead in this here old gun. The' hain't nothin' but

powder--six loads o' powder, all tamped in tight wi' clay. You couldn't

never guess what I'm a-goin' to do with it, so I'll tell ye.

"I'm a-goin' to shoot ye in the face wi' powder, and black it fo' good

jest like a nigger's, and put yore eyes out--atter I've told ye what

I've got to tell ye. Fust off, you're a-goin' to spend the rest o' yore

days a-wanderin' in Doe River Wilderness as blind as a bat, a-eatin'

leaves and grass and roots--keerful ther, Little Buck Wolfe, or I'll

shoot right now!"

His voice rang with hatred and--insanity! But Wolfe was in no condition

to take note of the latter. Wolfe was sitting up straight, his eyes

glittering, his hands gripping the sides of his homemade chair as

though they would crush the wooden splints. For a moment he seemed

about to defy the threatening shotgun and attack its owner in spite of

his badly injured leg.

But the wicked eagerness he saw in Mayfield's lean face caused him to

relax. He did not doubt that Mayfield would pull the trigger at the

slightest provocation. It would be best to wait. If he waited, there

might be a chance----

"Tell me about Tot," he said unsteadily. "And if you've harmed her,

Cat-Eye----"

"Now don't go so dang fast," broke in Mayfield, crossing his lanky legs

without in the least spoiling the shotgun's aim. "I hain't even laid

the weight o' my little finger on Tot. I shorely hain't. I managed my

revenge another way. It was right cute, too! Well, here's the whole

thing. Little Buck; and ef ye tries to git at me whilst I'm a-tellin'

it, I'll shoot--and when I shoot, black goes yore face and out goes

yore eyes. I hopes ye onderstand me.

"All right," he ran on, enjoying every moment of it. "When I got here,

it was sev'ral hours atter night, and the moon it was a-shinin' as

bright as day. The' was a light in the cabin window here--to show you

the way home, I reckon. I hides myself ahind of a tree, and watches fo'

a little while. Tot she'd come to the door every few minutes, and look

out. Once she must ha' imagined she'd heerd you a-comin', acause she

runs out in the woods a-callin' you.

[Illustration]

"'Little Buck, whar are you at, honey?' she says. 'Do come on, honey;

you must be half froze,' she says, jest the same as ef you was a kid!

Bah!

"But the only answer she got was none. So she goes back in the house

here, whar she sets down and cries, jest like wimmen will, ye know--now

you be keerful thar, Little Buck. You can see, shorely, I'm mighty nigh

it a-dyin' to shoot.

"Well," he continued, "I done already had everything planned out to a

fare-you-well finish afore I got here. I took yore rifle down to the

aidge o' the lake thar at the big beech, and laid it down half in the

water and half out. I throwed yore hat out in the lake, and it floated

jest like I'd figgered it would float. I doubles up yore coat, and

puts it inside o' my shirt. I hides yore ca'tridge-belt in a clump o'

laurel. Then I picks up a great, big rock from the lake's bank and

holds it up above my head in both hands, and waits fo' a lull in the

wind.

"When the wind it had lulled a little I throwed the big rock out in the

lake. It made a pow'ful noisy splash jest like I'd wanted it to do. And

'en I commenced a-bellerin' as loud as I could beller and not bust a

lung wide open.

"'Swim Little Buck swim! Kick wi' yore feet and paddle wi' yore hands!

Swim! Swim!' I bellers. 'It's pow'ful deep and ef ye don't swim,' I

bellers, 'you're shore to drownd!'

"And 'en I kicked in the water wi' one foot, and bellered a little more.

"Well, Tot she comes jest a-flyin' from the cabin here, which was

edzactly what I'd looked fo' her to do. What makes some wimmen so dang

foolish about one man when the world's full o' menfolks was allus

more'n I could onderstand. And in the bright moonlight I could see 'at

her face was as white or whiter'n the snow onder her feet. Her hands

they was both stretched out in front o' her.

"'Little Buck,' she says, bad skeered, 'whar are you at, honey--whar

are you at? says she.

"I goes to meet her, o' course. And I acted as ef I was shore turrible

bad excited.

"'He fell in the lake!' I tells her. 'He slipped and fell in the lake!

Le's git a rope, or a long pole, and mebbe we can git him out afore

he's drownded!' Haw--haw--haw!

"I had--keerful, Little Buck; you cain't slip on me!--had already

spotted a pole. I picks it up and runs back to the big beech, and holds

it out over the water.

"'Ketch a-holt o' this here, Little Buck!' I squalls. 'Ketch a holt o'

this here!' Then I stoops and looks out over the black lake. 'He's done

went down,' I says to Tot, who was a-standin' aside o' me a-wringin'

her hands. 'Pore boy; I cain't see nothin' but his hat a-floatin' out

thar,' I says.

"'And you pushed him in, you brute!' says Tot, all a-sobbin'. 'Go in

and try to git him out, Cat-Eye!' she says.

"'I didn't push him in,' says I; 'but I'll do all I can to git him out.

It may gi' me my death o' cold,' I says, 'but I wouldn't mind anything

fo' yore sake, little gyurl!'

"Keerful thar----

"And wi' that, I yanks off my old ragged coat and throws it and my

old ragged hat to the snow, and dives right in head-foremos'. The

water it wasn't so awful cold, it a-bein' nothin' but a monst'ous

big spring--springs is allus cold in the summer and warm in winter,

y' know--but it made me hoarse in my talk, as ye've done noticed, I

reckon. I've been a-doctorin' my throat the best I could; but I'm

still hoarse----"

"Never mind stretching it out like that!" Wolfe interrupted angrily.

"Go on with it!"

Mayfield grinned a broad, evil grin. He was enjoying to the fullest his

hour of triumph.

"Why," he leered, "you're danged anxious to have it over with and git

yore face burnt black and yore eyes burnt out, hain't ye?

"All right; as I said, I dived into the lake and found 'at the water

wasn't so cold atter all. I paddled and kicked ontel I'd worked my way

deep down in the lake. Thar I took yore coat out from the inside o' my

shirt, ketched it by the bottom, and let myself come back to the top

o' the water. The minute my head pops up into the wind, it mighty nigh

freezes off, o' course. How I spluttered and puffed and blowed! Tot was

a-standin' on the bank onder the beech; she was a-leanin' out toward

me.

"'Did ye find him?' she says, anxious-like. 'Did ye find Little Buck

fo' me? Oh,' she says, 'don't ye dare to tell me you never found him,

Cat-Eye!'

"I swims to Tot, and reaches yore coat up to her.

[Illustration]

"'He'd lodged ag'in a rock ledge down thar,' I tells her, wi' my teeth

a-chatterin' from the cold wind. 'I ketched him by the bottom o' the

coat; but he slipped out of it, and rolled off o' the rock ledge, and

sunk on down, hundreds o' feet in 'at black hole! He's gone, pore

little gyurl,' I says. 'He's gone forever. What a pity it was he

couldn't swim!' I says.

"And Tot she stands thar a-starin' at me wi' them 'ar big, fine, purty

blue eyes o' her'n filled wi' the tarment o' hell itself. I'll own up

'at I did feel jest a bit mean over what I was a-doin'--you ta' keer,

or I'll pull the trigger and put out yore blasted eyes! Don't you make

nary 'nother move like as ef ye was a-goin' to jump at me, neither; do

ye onderstand me?

"Well, I crawls a-drippin' out in that turrible cold wind, and says to

Tot, 'As I'm jest about to freeze to death,' says I, 'I reckon I'd

better run to the fire.'

"Git his hat fo' me,' begs Tot.

"I jumps in the lake and brings her yore hat. She wanted to know ef I'd

done every blessed thing I could do to save ye, and I swore I shorely

had. I went to the house, and stirred up the fire, and stood afore it,

a-turnin' fust one side to it and 'en t'other. Tot she didn't foller

me to the house. I watched her through a window. She stood out thar in

the awful cold, wi' yore wet coat and hat pressed to her bosom, fo' two

solid hours afore she moved a single inch.

"And I says to myself, I says, 'Mebbe I hain't a-gittin' even and

square wi' you fo' a-turnin' me down and a-takin' that 'ar light-headed

artickle you took fo' a husband! Mebbe I hain't a-gittin' even and

square wi' you!' I says to myself. I----"

"You yellow-hearted scoundrel!" Wolfe exploded.

"Ta' keer! Ta' keer!" Mayfield cautioned. "You hain't in no p'sition to

be a-callin' me ugly names. I never did like to be called ugly names,

and I hain't a-goin' to put up with it."

Wolfe sank back in his chair. "All right," he said, "get the rest of it

out of you."

"Well," the other pursued, "I knowed wimmen was scatter-brained and

foolish when they was in love. I know the wimmenfolks and their ways,

y' see. I'd figgered it out 'at Tot she would drownd herself to be wi'

you in death. Wimmen's awful crazy when they're in love. And 'specially

these here mountain wimmen. You know how they loves when they loves at

all. So as I watched Tot through the window, I shorely expected to see

her jump in the lake and go down. But she didn't. She fin'ly come to

the house and set down afore the fire. Yore coat and hat was still in

her arms, and they was froze stiff now--yore coat and hat was. Her face

it was all pinched and blue wi' the cold.

"When she'd warmed up a little, she says to me, 'Tell me how it

happened.'

"'It was this a-way,' says I. 'Little Buck he follered me over to

a creek, and ketched me thar. He was a-bringin' me in, and we was

a-walkin' along aside o' the lake, and his foot slipped on the ice. You

know all o' the rest,' I says.

"'You pushed him in, you brute!' she says to me. 'You pushed him in,

you brute!'

"'That's pow'ful foolish talk, little gyurl,' says I. 'You hain't got no

right to 'cuse me o' sech a thing, atter I resked my life a-tryin' to

git him out. It makes me feel plum' bad,' I says.

"But she stuck to it 'at I was the cause o' yore death, and all the

argyfyin' I could do didn't change her notions a dang bit. And fin'ly I

tells her this here:

"'Have it yore way, like wimmenfolks allus does,' I says. 'You can

shoot me ef ye want to. I promise ye I won't raise a hand to keep ye

from it,' I was jest a-bluffin', ye onderstand.

[Illustration]

"'The only reason I hain't already shot ye,' Tot says, 'is 'at I'm

afeard blood on my soul, even the blood of a rattlesnake like you,

might keep me from a-goin' to Little Buck when I die. Even the blood of

a snake is red,' says she.

"And I won't never fo'git how she looked when she told me that. Ef it

hadn't ha' been fo' my hate fo' you, Little Buck Wolfe, I'd ha' quit

right thar, shorely.

"Well, I laid down on the floor afore the fire, and soon drapped off

to sleep. When I woke up, daylight was a-breakin'. Tot she was still

a-settin' thar a-holdin' yore wet clo'es to her bosom. Her breath

it was a-comin' wheezy and quick, and she had a scratchy sawt o'

cough; her eyes they was as bright as coals o' fire, and her face was

a-burnin' wi' fever.

"You contemptible devil!" cried Wolfe, every nerve in his body at taut

as a violin string.

"Keerful now!" said Mayfield, his finger feeling for the trigger. "You

hain't in any p'sition to be a-callin' me ugly names."

Wolfe quieted himself by a supreme effort. "Tell the rest," he urged.

It was all very plausible, just the thing, in fact, for Mayfield to

do. Therefore, it did not occur to Wolfe that the wretch had lied to

him--and the wretch hadn't.

"The' hain't a dang bit o' use in a-bein' so allfired fidgety," said

Mayfield. "I'll git to the p'int in my own good time. I'm a-holdin' it

off a purpose to see you wriggle. It's the biggest kind o' fun to me,

to see you wriggle like a worm in hot ashes.

"All right. Well, as soon as it was broad daylight, Tot she gits up and

goes out to the bank o' the lake whar she thought you'd went in at. I

watched her through the window. I seed her stoop down clost to the

water and pick up yore rifle, which I'd laid thar to fool her. She made

shore it was yore'n, and took it to her bosom wi' yore coat and hat.

Atter a little while o' standin' thar a-starin' down into the lake, she

comes back to the house. She was a-staggerin' now; she was as wild as a

rabbit in her head, jest plum' delirrus, and she commenced a-talkin' to

you.

"'Little Buck,' she says, 'whar are you at, honey? I want you now,' she

says. 'Why don't you answer me, Little Buck? Whar are you at? Why don't

you come to me? Why don't you come to yore Tot?' she says; and she sobs

a little at the last.

"And I knowed as I listened to her a-talkin' that a-way 'at my big

vict'ry was at hand. Then I heerd her say, reel soft, this here:

"'I remember--I remember, now. How lonesome you must be down in that

black hole without me!' she says--ta' keer thar, Little Buck Wolfe, ta'

keer!

"Tot she goes to the table and puts down yore rifle, hat and coat. She

takes a little Bible-book from the mantel, and puts it in her bosom.

I watches her clost. She went out to the big beech aside o' the lake.

I follered her, a-keepin' whar she wouldn't notice me. She turned her

burnin' eyes uppards, and raised both arms. I seed the light o' the

risin' sun sparkle on the di'mont o' the ring 'at was on her finger.

Her copper-colored hair it looked like gold. I bit the inside o' my

mouth ontel it bled, acause I was somehow afeard.

[Illustration]

"'I'm a-comin' to ye, honey,' she says delirruslike. 'It's better to

lay down thar in that etarnal night wi' you 'an to live on in this

lonesome, lonesome world. Open yore arms fo' me, Little Buck,' says

she, 'like ye used to--I'm a-comin' to be wi' you, my own!' she says.

"And she walked straight down in the water and went onder; and the last

I seed o' her was one little, white hand----"

"One little, white hand--" Wolfe interrupted in a terrible voice. He

could govern himself no longer--he straightened on his sound leg and

sprang, his hands before his eyes to protect them from the powder.

There was an oath from the lips of Mayfield, and immediately afterward

came a great flash and a great roar. Wolfe found himself groping in a

stifling white cloud of powder smoke--but he had not been burned in the

least degree!

He dropped to his hands and knees and peered under the slowly-lifting

cloud. He saw Cat-Eye Mayfield lying supine on the floor, with the old

shotgun across his narrow chest. He crept forward, meaning to kill the

unspeakable reptile with his bare hands--meaning to strangle the wicked

life out.

When he reached Mayfield, he saw that the shotgun, which had been

loaded beyond its power of resistance, had split for eight inches at

the breech--and Mayfield's lean face was burned as black as that of an

Ethiopian; his eyes were perfectly and incurably blind! The monster of

his own foul brain's creation had turned upon him.

Wolfe uttered a cry that makes the finest description puny. He seized

the other's slender throat in a viselike grip. The blind eyes stared

toward him. Then he recalled the words of Tot.

"_Even the blood of a snake is red._"

His hands left Mayfield's neck. He rose and limped out of the cabin,

and went to the big beech that stood beside Tot's beautiful Lake of

Peace. There he saw many of his wife's small footprints in the snow----

Lying in the edge of the water, he found a dark blue shawl that she had

been wont to wear about her shoulders when the weather was cold. Beside

it lay a tortoise-shell comb. A branch that hung low over the lake

had kept for him a few strands of hair that was of the color of dark

copper. He wrung the water from the shawl and put it, with the other

little treasures, on the snow beside him. Almost he wished, now, that

he had killed Mayfield----

A sudden weird, skittering shriek split the air like a knife. He turned

his head quickly. Through the mist of his sorrow he saw blind Cat-Eye

Mayfield rushing toward the lake. Mayfield's thin lips were parted and

jerking; his blackened face was contorted and hideous. No man may be

himself when he has suffered as young Wolfe had suffered; Wolfe laughed

thickly, oddly, mimicking the hoarse laugh that was Mayfield's.

"Haw-haw-haw!"

The sightless man fell to his hands and knees and began to grope for

the edge of the lake. Soon he had found it. Then he straightened

and turned his hideous face--a singular thing, and inexplicable--as

squarely toward Little Buck Wolfe as though he had eyes to see him.

"I'm a-goin' to give up what the' is left o' me to make you suffer

more!" Mayfield gibbered. "I'm a-goin' to lay down thar in 'at black

hole wi' her--wi' Tot Singleton--I'm a-goin' to be buried in the same

grave wi' her, yore wife, and he'p yeself ef ye can!"

Yes, the man was insane. Hatred had absorbed all his faculties.

Wolfe stood like a work in bronze, and stared. Mayfield ran into the

water, cursing as he went, and sank like a stone, down, down, down to

darkness eternal. Wolfe even went whiter as he watched the bubbles and

lessening ripples that marked the spot where the worst man in the world

had died that his devilish triumph might be a little greater.

His lips moved, and it was to say this, brokenly, "My cup--of

bitterness--is brimming. Why, my God, why?"

He made his way back to the lonesome cabin. He threw the burst shotgun

out to the snow, which hid it mercifully, and tossed Mayfield's slouch

hat into the fire.

There was a little of sweet, sad comfort in handling the things that

had been his wife's. When he could no longer bear to look upon them, he

pushed a chair to the cabin's front doorway and sat down, unmindful of

the cold, and absently watched the chilled sun sink behind the snowy

forest.

A great silence was about him. There was not even a wind to sigh in the

tops of the giant hemlocks. It was quite as though he were the sole

inhabitant of some lost, dead world.

XXIII

When darkness had fallen, Wolfe closed the door and went to the

low-burned fire.

He slept none that night, none the following day, and became pitifully

thin and haggard. Loss of sleep and grief's steady gnawing had made him

half-delirious. Hallucinations began to distress him. A dozen times

he imagined he heard Tot's voice calling to him from the bluish-black

depths of the lake. He imagined that he saw her ghost-white hand thrust

above the water, and that it beckoned to him. Then came Mayfield's

triumphant, taunting laugh, and he saw the lusterless blind eyes

staring at him through a window----

"I must put an end to this," he told himself in a whisper, when night

had come again. "I'll go to bed, and I'll go to sleep. Tomorrow I'll

hunt for the money and my rifle. When I'm able to walk, I'll go to

Conradsville, and from there on--on."

He went to bed and he went to sleep. When he woke the next morning, he

felt stronger, though his grief was as poignant as it had ever been. He

determined that he would bear his burden bravely; Tot would want him to

do that, if she could know.

Seven hours he spent in a search for the money and his rifle, and found

neither. Mayfield, he told himself, might have carried the money to the

bottom of the lake with him.

Thirty very long days went by. Winter had passed, and the first breath

of spring had come. Puccoons and pale-green ferns were beginning to

peep from the rich black earth in sheltered spots. The buds of the

hickories were swelling, and squirrels were rioting among them.

"Tomorrow I'll go," said Wolfe to himself. "I'll start early. With the

help of a cane, I can walk pretty well."

It was during the last of the sunset hour. He sat in a chair just

inside the front doorway, watching the dull-gold sun without seeing it

as it burned a hole through the fringe of jackpines that grew along the

crest of the western mountain. Then he bent his head to his breast and

began to think. He knew that the hardest good-by of his life was at

hand.

A little red ant that lived under the doorstep crawled up Wolfe's boot,

up his leg, and to the back of his hand. Wolfe frowned, jerked up his

head, brushed the insect away, and began to stare toward the sinking

dull-gold sun again.

Thanks to the little red ant, he saw a flicker of officer-blue in the

distance!

A fever of fear seized him. How relentless Whitney Fair was! Of course,

Fair had sent this man after him--of course! He rose so abruptly that

he overturned his chair, caught up a cane and a bundle that contained

provisions, his spare clothing and the clothing that Tot, his wife,

had left--he would never part with that, never--and rushed out by way

of the back door. As rapidly as he could go he crossed the open space

and entered the eastern half of Doe River Wilderness. At the edge of

the thick forest, he paused long enough to fling out a hand toward the

lake in farewell.

[Illustration]

When he had reached the crest of a ridge half a mile from the lake,

he looked back. The man in officer-blue was entering the cabin by the

front doorway.

Wolfe hurried on breathlessly, going straight toward Virginia. He

walked nearly all of that night, guiding his movements by the stars,

and slept the next day hidden in a dense thicket of laurel and ivy. Not

until he had placed forty rugged, hard-won miles between him and the

head of Doe River, did he dare to travel in the daytime. His debt to

the law must wait--until his debt to man was paid!

In an extremely wild section just across the Tennessee-Virginia

State line, he ran upon a logging-camp that was sorely in need of a

woods foreman. He decided that there was small chance of his being

apprehended in this out-of-the-way place, so he asked for the job for

one month and got it.

The pay was good, and in the four weeks he saved enough money to defray

all expenses of the journey to the Northwest. Then he hastened to the

nearest railway station, bought a fare, and caught a westbound train.

XXIV

The Wolfes had been in the State's prison at Nashville a little more

than four years. They now stood convinced that they had erred, that

they had wilfully violated a law that was absolutely just, and they

were atoning like men. There was about them none of the grimness, none

of the moroseness, none of the sullen bitterness that is usually found

in the hillman when he has had iron bars and walls of stone placed

between him and his liberty. If they pined for home and the great

dim-blue mountains with their trees and rocks and sparkling streams,

there was certainly no outward sign of it.

Only one of them had felt the cold touch of the white plague, the

scourge that so frequently cuts short the life of the imprisoned

mountaineer. This was Brian Wolfe's son, Charley, who was not much more

than a boy for all of his six feet in height. But Charley didn't whine

about it; to have whined about it, to him, would have been the part of

a yellow dog. In point of fact, Charley Wolfe kept his afflictions so

well hidden that no one else even suspected it.

It was pitiful how he did that. In the daytime he staved off the

telltale cough by means of a force of will that was truly remarkable;

at night he buried his head in the folds of his blankets and smothered

the cough. He laughed lightly at his increasing thinness and at the

hectic flush that glowed in his cheeks in the afternoons--when anybody

chanced to mention it.

Christmas Day came snowy and cold, with a biting north wind. The

spirit of peace and good-will had found its way through the high and

forbidding stone walls of the penitentiary. The convicts were not kept

in their cells, nor were they made to work, on this day. Even Bully

McCrary, who had been an incorrigible and the fighting man of the

prison before the coming of the Wolfes, cried "Merry Christmas!" to

every person he met--which included his former sworn enemy, a sad-eyed,

intelligent fellow nicknamed and named Pale Tom Ledworth.

Now it was customary for the Fiddling Governor, Tennessee's best

loved man, to give the inmates of the State's prison a fine dinner on

Christmas Day; and on this occasion, he had decided that he would drive

out to say grace over it himself.

He arrived half an hour before noon-time. The warden met him at the

office door, bowed almost reverently, for the Governor was a man whose

faults were so magnificently human that they were almost virtues, and

greeted him with the compliments of the season. He entered, drew off

his overcoat and gloves, and sat down before the glowing stove.

Just then Old Buck Wolfe, an iron gray giant whom stripes seemed

altogether unable to disgrace, appeared before the door of heavy

iron-lattice that stood between the office and the prison proper. His

range of vision did not take in the distinguished visitor.

"Warden," said he, "will you please see if you can't get a fiddle for

me--just for this one afternoon, sir? I used to fiddle. I don't think

I've forgot how. If it's not asking too much, that is."

The warden looked toward his caller.

"It's Christmas Day, Warden," the Governor said. "Get one if you can.

I think I can understand how a fiddler feels when he hasn't touched a

fiddle for several years. Who is it, Warden?"

"The chief of the Wolfes, sir."

At that the Governor rose, went to a desk, sat down beside it and

reached for a telephone receiver. He asked for his residence, got the

connection, and ordered that his own fiddle be sent at once to the

penitentiary!

Old Buck Wolfe turned away the gladdest and proudest man in the

sovereign State of Tennessee.

When he had gone, the Governor asked of the warden, "How are these

mountaineers behaving now?"

"Men couldn't conduct themselves better than our mountaineers, sir,"

the warden answered. "They've done finely, all of them. The old man had

a fight soon after his arrival here, but we couldn't blame him for it;

he was very much in the right, sir. I'd be glad to tell you about that

fight."

"I'd be glad to hear about it, Warden."

"The Wolfes," the prison official began, "had just finished putting

on their first stripes when the supper gong rang. We marched them to

a table that was all taken up on one side by Bully McCrary and his

following. They had always made trouble among the other prisoners, the

McCraryites had, and we kept them to themselves when it was convenient.

"Old Buck talked in mountaineer dialect then--Pale Tom Ledworth has

since taught the Wolfes how to read and write and speak correctly, as

well as a great many other things; oh, they've made the best of their

prison term! Well, as I was saying--Old Buck looked across the table,

straight at McCrary, drew his shaggy brows, and drawled this:

"'You fellers over thar bend yore heads down'ards a little. I am now

a-goin' to ax the blessin'. The' hain't no use in a-bein' damned hawgs

jest acause we happens to be here in the penitenchy.'

"McCrary and his outfit roared with laughter, and began to make sport

of Old Buck Wolfe. Old Buck's eyes flashed like the fire of powder.

He turned to his kinsmen and said, 'See 'at not more'n five o' them

weasels over thar jumps on me at oncet.'

"Then he went straight across the table and its dishes, and collared

McCrary; and before the guards could stop the fight, McCrary had

received a mighty good pounding. I--I guess the guards were not in much

of a hurry to interfere, to tell the truth about the matter; you see,

sir, Bully McCrary was only getting what was coming to him.

"Old Wolfe went around to his place at the table, sat down, and eyed

the McCrary crowd sharply.

[Illustration]

"'You fellers over thar bend yore heads down'ards a little,' he

repeated very quietly. 'I am now a-goin' to ax the blessin'. The'

hain't no use in a-bein' damned hawgs jest acause we happens to be here

in the penitenchy.'

"Every prisoner in the mess-hall bowed his head. So did the guards. And

so, for that matter, did I. Since that time, Old Buck has said grace

at every meal. He's held up his banner like a soldier, and most of the

others have flocked to it. He was born to leadership, I'd say, born to

rule. He's a king of his kind, sir."

Shortly afterward a messenger arrived with the fiddle and bow in a

leathern case. The Governor took the case and put it on the desk at

his side. The ringing of the gong announced that dinner was ready, and

Warden Gray escorted the State's high light to the big mess-hall. They

found the convicts seated at the long tables, which were well laden

with the good things to eat one expects on Christmas Day.

Then the chief executive bared his head and raised one fine, white

hand. In clear and impressive tones he repeated the old-fashioned

blessing that he had heard so many thousands of times back in his

boyhood home in Happy Valley.

Old Buck Wolfe echoed fervently the "Amen!" and added in the voice of a

Goliath, "God bless the Governor!"

Pale Tom Ledworth rose and held up his glass of innocent wine in a hand

that wasn't quite steady.

"The Governor," he cried, "God bless him!"

The other prisoners went to their feet and lifted their glasses high.

"The Governor," they cried, "God bless him!"

It rang and rang and rang.

Tennessee's best-loved man was suffering keenly at the heart. He was

thinking of the lonesome and desolate homes of these men who were

paying their debts to the law and to society, of the saddened firesides

and empty chairs of this Christmas Day. He was thinking of the longing

of women, and the prayers of women, and of the heavy crosses men make

their mothers bear--their mothers, the finest fighters in the world.

"Warden," he whispered, his eyes bright and twinkling, "you'd better

get me out of here."

"This way, sir."

The two of them went back to the office, sat down, and silently watched

the whirling snow through the windows. When dinner was over, they went

again to the mess-hall, and the Governor placed his fiddle and bow in

the hands of Old Buck Wolfe.

"If you can play 'Buffalo Gals,'" he smiled, "play it. It comes very

near to being my favorite jig."

"It's mine, my favorite," the big hillman exclaimed happily, "by a long

shot!"

He handled the beloved instrument with reverence. It seemed that

he feared his knotty, work-hardened hands would scar it. On his

countenance was the light of a rapture that the owner of that fiddle,

being himself a fiddler, understood. Old Wolfe began to play his

favorite; his left foot kept time on the stone floor, and his huge

body swayed rhythmically to and fro. Soon every other person present

was tapping the floor with a restless foot. There is no gloomy note in

"Buffalo Gals."

When the delighted mountaineer's wrists and fingers had become too

weary to function properly, he lowered the instrument amid much

applause. Then somebody lifted the cry, "One little tune from the

Governor!" Others took it up, and it became a roar.

The Fiddling Governor took the fiddle and tightened two of its strings

a trifle.

Because it was Christmas Day, the day of peace on earth and good will

toward men.

"What shall it be, boys?" His eyes twinkled pleasurably.

Bully McCrary never made a greater mistake, though it came out all

right in the end.

"Home, Sweet Home, if you please, sir," he begged.

The State's leading official rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Of course,

he did not want to play that; there were those who would feel very much

upset, if he did--why, it would be torture. But McCrary's gaze pleaded

so hard; the melodramatic McCrary was ready to preach, pray, shout

hallelujahs, sing, dance, or fight. The Governor put the fiddle into

place and began, striving purposely to give a poor interpretation. But

his fingers trembled in spite of him, rendering a delicate and soulful

_vibrata_. The prisoners stared toward one another with wide, friendly

eyes. Then, one by one, they began to stare toward the floor.

[Illustration]

Only a few bars had been played when Charley Wolfe, who had tried

manfully to be a credit to his name, who had so bravely hidden all

signs of his affliction, crumpled to his knees and cried out in the

musical hill dialect two unbidden words in one--"Goddle-mighty!"

Just that.

The Governor quickly passed his fiddle and bow into the hands of the

warden, knelt beside Charley Wolfe, and swept back from the clammy brow

the thick, dead-black hair. He lifted the lean face, saw a trace of red

at each corner of the quivering, sensitive mouth, and knew. Charley

Wolfe no longer had a secret.

"He's got the bugs, sure," very sympathetically said Bully McCrary, who

also had seen. "He's got 'em, sure."

"Warden," the Governor asked, "how much is there left of this boy's

sentence?"

"Let's see: with eight months counted off for good behavior--about

three more months, sir."

The executive went to his feet. "I'll see that he's pardoned at once,

Warden. While the matter is being arranged, keep him in the hospital;

and tell the doctors to give him plenty of medicines and instructions

when he starts for home--don't forget it."

"If you don't mind," Charley Wolfe murmured, rising with his father's

help, "I'd like to stick it out, sir. I consider that this is a debt I

owe. A Wolfe always pays his debts, and tells the truth, and keeps his

word. I--I want to stick it out."

"You're going home," frowned Old Buck. "You've got to go, so you can

get well. We'll be there with you, in about three more months. Don't

say anything against it, Charley."

He was still the chief of the Wolfes. There was no disobeying him.

Before the sick young man's mental vision there flashed scenes of home

and loved ones and the majestic dim-blue mountains with their trees and

rocks and sparkling streams. A great longing came to him, the longing

he had fought away so many times. He caught the Governor's hand.

* * * * *

Three months later, the rest of the Wolfes walked proudly out of the

State's prison and started for the railway station. They were dressed

in the clothing of Southern gentlemen, and they attracted no little

attention on the street.

"Say, but we're sure goin' to miss 'em," remarked Bully McCrary to

Pale Tom Ledworth. "Look at Warden Gray; even him, he's got that

I-wonder-will-I-ever-be-happy-again look on him. Say, take this from

me, Pallid, them was all men, them Wolfes."

"It's not being free that makes them so glad," Pale Tom replied in his

soft voice. "They had a letter from home this morning, and it told them

that Charley was improving rapidly. That's what makes them so glad."

XXV

It came to pass in June.

There alighted from an early morning train in Conradsville, North

Carolina, a tall and muscular, smooth-faced and sober-visaged, youngish

man wearing boots that were laced high in front, a suit of blue serge,

a blue flannel shirt, a slim, black tie, and a broad-rimmed black hat.

He sent his baggage on to Johnsville, Tennessee, bought for himself a

week's supply of traveling rations, and set out immediately, on foot

and alone, for the heart of Doe River Wilderness.

It was, of course, Little Buck Wolfe, the Arnold Mason that was. He had

been in the great Northwest, dealing in timberlands, for a little more

than seven years.

His rise had not been meteoric, but it had been steady. He began by

obtaining an option on a wide and finely-timbered boundary of woodland;

soon afterward, he won the interest of a group of Eastern lumbermen,

and arranged a transfer that gave him a cash base to build upon.

Gradually he became known as a timber Midas. In the seven years he had

cleared enough money to pay back all that had been lost in the Wolfe's

Basin fire, and he was now on his way to pay it. Then the law could

have him, if it still wanted him. But first he had to visit the little

cabin that stood on the shore of the lake that was the source of Doe

River.

[Illustration]

During all that time, he had not written once to Colonel and Mrs.

Mason. He considered his reason for not writing a very good one,

indeed. Whitney Fair was post master at Johnsville. Wolfe's fear of

being arrested before his purpose was accomplished had become an

obsession, overshadowing everything, except the purpose itself. And

then, the fine humility of the man had convinced him that without the

money necessary to pay the colossal debt he was a nonentity, nothing,

non-existent.

He reached Doe River at a point some two miles below the lake shortly

before midnight. This bank of the stream was for the most part cliffs,

and, as there was no visible way of effecting a crossing, the remainder

of the journey to the cabin would of necessity have to be made in the

daytime. Wolfe lighted a fire under a tree, rolled himself in his

blanket, and went to sleep.

Early the next morning he rose and climbed down to the crystal-clear

river's brink to bathe his face and hands. As he turned from the edge

of the stream, he saw, lying on a nearby low ledge of the cliff, where

some high water had left it years before, a bare and bleaching human

skeleton.

Wolfe stood aghast, dumb, frozen. It had come from the lake, of course,

but whose--_which was it?_ Was it the skeleton of a man, or that of a

woman?

He approached it slowly, knowing not whether to bless it or to curse

it, to hold it sacred or to hate it. Then he saw on one of the arm

bones, the unmistakable mark of a bullet, and he knew; it was the mark

of the bullet that poor old Grandpap Singleton had fired that long gone

day in Devil's Gate to save his, Wolfe's, life. The bones were those

of Cat-Eye Mayfield.

The realization clenched Wolfe's fists iron hard, sent him as white

as a man in the grip of certain death. He would stone the accursed

thing--he would crush to bits all that was left of that most

unspeakable of wretches.

No, he wouldn't. He would do as Tot would have him do if she could

know; this had been the motto, the balance-wheel, the guiding light of

his seven years in exile. With his hands he made a hole in the soft

black earth at the cliff's base, and buried the skeleton. When it was

done, he felt glad that he had obeyed the finer impulse. And it was a

consolation to know that Mayfield had been cheated of the last mean

part of his triumph.

Wolfe looked up and down the river's banks for the other skeleton, and

didn't find it. When one has drained the iron chalice, Fate is very apt

to be merciful!

The little cabin was much dilapidated. Half the stone-and-clay chimney

had tumbled down before the eternal onslaughts of wind and rain; a

storm had carried away a fourth of the split-board roof. Ferns and

rattleweed grew over the doorstep as though trying to bar the way

to feet that might profane. Wolfe crossed the feeble green barrier,

and entered his holies of holies, the place that had seen enacted

his life's one perfect chapter. The interior was damp and musty and

mildewed. The rafters were lined with the tiny homes of mudwasps. A

copperhead lay coiled comfortably in the little pit where they had

kept their savings hidden; he killed the snake with one shot from his

revolver and threw it out.

There were a few mementoes of the gloriously happy days. A rusted table

knife, a rusted spoon, a broken dish, two mother-of-pearl buttons, a

rusted wire hairpin, a rotting mealbag window-curtain that Tot's own

fingers had hemmed. He fondled them for a little while, a sort of Pagan

worship in his eyes; then he put them down on the mildewed table and

went out and sat in the lush grass beside the bluish-black lake for a

long time. The milestones of his life trooped back to him there, passed

before him one by one, like soldiers in review.

Two days and two nights he spent there in the silence.

He set out for Wolfe's Basin at daybreak of a fine morning.

Yellowhammers and squirrels were making love and quarreling everywhere

in the forest about him. Bright-winged butterflies were busily sipping

honey from the tiny blossoms of the rattleweed; wild bees were humming

about the pink-eyed bloom of the ivy and the white and waxen cups of

the laurel flowers. It was springtime for every living thing on earth

but him.

After walking hard all that day and all the next and one hour more, he

reached the rugged, pine-fringed crest of a mountain that he believed

to be his home mountain, the Big Blackfern. He strained his eyes to

the westward, trying to make out in the darkness the shape of bald and

majestic Picketts Dome above the Lost Trail. He saw dimly a peak that

he believed to be Picketts Dome.

[Illustration]

Then he went on, and halted at a point from which he could look down

into the long, broad valley that lay below. In a building that stood in

the center of that valley, there was a series of lighted windows.

"It's Sunday night, and that's a church," he said to himself. "I've

lost my way. There's no church in Wolfe's Basin. That must be

Beechwood. Perhaps--wait! Maybe I've----"

A fine hope broke into his heart; he was no very religious

man--churches went with civilization's advance, always. When he reached

the level land it was late, and there was not a light to be seen

anywhere; a perfect stillness reigned. He found himself walking along a

graveled street between two rows of vine-covered cottages. The mingled

perfume of honeysuckles and roses was well-nigh intoxicating. He passed

between a church and a schoolhouse, both of which were painted white.

There was a wide concrete bridge that had been built across a rippling,

tinkling creek. He went over and turned up the stream, looking for a

stately willow that stood over a bar of white sand. If he could but

find the willow, he would know.

He found it, and he knew!

For the present, this was enough. He would wait until morning to meet

his people. Besides, he dreaded having to tell the Singletons about

poor Tot. He stretched his weary figure out on his blanket, and watched

the bright stars--Grandpap Singleton's promises--through the branches

of the patriarchal tree until he went to sleep. He dreamed then that

he sat on a burning desert with a heavy cup in his hand; and that a

woman, in flowing white, came and took the cup from him, and dashed it

away.

Little Buck Wolfe woke in a cold sweat. It was hard for him to go to

sleep again.

When he woke again, broad daylight had come. He rose, combed his hair

with his fingers, put on his hat, and looked about him. Nearby stood

an especially home-like cottage with an inviting veranda in front. All

manner of sweet, old-fashioned flowers bloomed in the spacious yard. He

went slowly toward it.

Sitting in a deep and comfortable veranda rocker, he saw a very old

woman in dark-figured calico; she wore a red bandanna about her

perfectly white head, and there was a long-stemmed clay pipe in her

toothless mouth. It was Granny Wolfe, yet alive.

"Buck, is 'at you?" she asked shrilly as he approached. "'Pears like

it's yore walk, and 'pears like it hain't. But whoever it is, come

right on in and set down here wi' me. Hey?"

She was now almost blind. The strapping figure of her grandson was only

a blur to her eyes.

Wolfe bent over her. "Don't you know me, grand--grammaw?"

The poor old creature did not recognize his voice. "Not from

Adam's off ox, nor a side o' sole-leather!" she cried. "You're a

stranger to me, shorely! And might I ax, dad-burn it, what ye're

a-sellin'--lightnin'-rods, sewin'-machines, patent churns, spec's,

potater-peelers, or hillside plows; hey?"

Wolfe dropped into a chair facing hers, and picked up one of her

pitifully thin hands.

"I--I'm Little Buck, grammaw," he said, a trifle unsteadily.

She pulled her hand away quickly. "Stuff! Stuff!" she exclaimed. "It's

a durned pore joke, stranger! Little Buck, pore boy, he's been dead a

long time. And ef ye try to spring 'at joke on me ag'in, I'll bust ye

acrost the forrard wi' my stick--ef I don't, I wisht I may drap dead

right here in my tracks, and never git another breath!"

Wolfe shrugged, then he asked anxiously, "Are the Masons still living?

And who--who has died here in the last seven years?"

"The Masons is both alive. Hain't been but one grown pusson died here

in the last seven year; 'at was pore old Grandpap Bill Singleton, the

Prophet. Pore old Bill! Yes, he's done went up to his little shelter in

the skies."

The assurance that both his fathers and both his mothers still lived

filled Wolfe's heart with thankfulness. "If you'll only listen,

grammaw," he pursued, "I'll prove to you that I'm Little----"

"Hush yore mouth!" she cut in angrily. "I hain't a-goin' to listen to

no sech danged fool talk! But--" and she lowered her creaking voice to

a whisper--"but I mustn't be so consarned loud. The widder woman I live

with here she's a-sleepin', and she mustn't be woke up. Pore gyurl,

she set up mighty nigh it the whole night wi' Lon Singleton's little

boy, Robert Bob, who went and et a whole wagon-load o' green apples

yeste'day."

"So Lon is married?"

"Why, shore; he married Hallie Wolfe, o' course," rather irritably. "He

was the fust pusson 'at ever married a Wolfe and kep' his own name. But

sence then, the's been sev'ral Singletons married Wolfes and kep' their

own names, jest as the's been sev'ral Wolfes married Singletons and

kep' their names. I can tell ye, stranger, them 'ar Singletons is good

folks, every one of 'em."

Wolfe looked thoughtfully out across the bottom of the great basin.

Suddenly he realized that he was staring at one of a series of yawning

holes that had been made in the base of the Blackfern. Those holes had

not been there seven years before, certainly. He asked his grandmother

about them.

"Iron," said the old woman.

"Iron!"

"Yes, iron." Three puffs at her clay pipe. "What they calls magnetic

iron ore, and the finest in Ameriky--says the Colonel. Both mountains

is chuck a-bustin' full of it. My son, Buck, he found it whilst he was

hid in a cave from the law. The depity he chased Buck back in the cave

a hundred yards, and thar Buck found it. It was the treasure the dyin'

stranger talked about a long, long time ago, and which Buck he allus

thought was gold."

[Illustration]

Her grandson gasped. She went on in her garrulous way.

"The colonel he took a-holt of it. He borried money from the bank, and

bought t'other side o' both mountains, bought out t'other part owners

o' the lumber comp'ny, and built the narrer-gauge railroad on down to

the big blast furnace at Johnsville. This here--this here--er, what'n

the devil was I a-talkin' about' anyhow? Oh, yes--iron. I never slep'

none last night. Why, yes--the colonel he paid the bank back mighty

soon, I'm a-tellin' ye, Mister!

"The colonel he gives all o' us Wolfes and Singletons work at plum'

scan'lous good pay. Bless the bones of him, he built us a church and a

schoolhouse, and brung in a fine teacher and a fine preacher; and he

put up a big gen'al store and a post office fo' us, too. Utopia, 'at's

the name o' the post office. Utopia, Tennessee. Purty, hain't it? And

the colonel he gi' us all land in the name o' pore Little Buck, and he

he'ped us to build dandy houses like these ye see. Se we're all happy

'cept fo' one thing, which is the losin' o' pore Little Buck. God rest

the ashes o' him!

"Mister, I--" Again she caught herself and lowered her voice. "Durn my

old pickcher, I allus was a fool fo' talkin'. Why, I bet I've done woke

her up." (It was a safe bet) "I wisht these here drotted boys'd keep

them wagon-loads o' green apples out o' their blasted little bellies,

so's she could stay home o' nights whar she belongs. Anybody gits

sick--she's the nuss and doctor."

The heart of Wolfe throbbed wildly. His most roseate hopes, long lost,

had never touched so perfect a fulfilment of his dream, his big dream.

If only he had Tot! If only she could know! The insufferableness of it

made him weak. He slumped down a trifle in his chair.

The front door's screen opened and closed softly, and he heard

the pattering of small feet beside him. It was a very little boy,

chubbily-built; he was strutting proudly in his first pair of

knee-trousers, real knee-trousers.

"Good morning, Judge!" smiled Wolfe.

"Good mawnin', suh!" the very little boy said sweetly, in a grown-up

fashion that was delightfully ludicrous--and Wolfe knew then that

the child had been much associated with old Colonel Mason, Southern

gentleman. Granny Wolfe jumped out of the edge of a nap.

"Why, Bobolink!" she cackled. "You've come out here to show off yore

new britches, you honey-dumplin'! His name, Mister, is Bob Taylor

Wolfe; but the's so danged many Bob Taylor Wolfe's here in Utopia 'at

we calls him mostly Bobolink to make a diffunce. He's got another name,

too, which, down in the hearts of us, we likes the best; I think it

was his granpaw, Old Buck, my son, who put him up to it. Now, Bobolink,

tell the stranger yore other name."

It came promptly, "Littlest Buck Wolfe."

Little Buck Wolfe went as white as chalk. He looked straight into the

boy's wide, serious, unflinching eyes, and the light broke suddenly--he

was looking into his own eyes. But he dared not hope. It couldn't be.

Tot was dead; she had been dead for seven eternities of years. Still----

It was at that moment that the Littlest Buck Wolfe's mother came to the

door. She was round-figured, mature, magnificent; her face was that of

a Madonna; her hair was of the color of dark copper.

Her husband shot up straight.

"_Tot!_"

* * * * *

After they had succeeded in convincing Granny Wolfe that she had been

talking to her own grandson, Wolfe told the story of the tragedy, as he

knew it, that had taken place at the lake that was the source of Doe

River.

"Mayfield deceived us both," said Tot. "Most of what he told you was

true. But instead of going down in the lake, I took the stolen money

and my rifle and came back here to prove your innocence of the charge

of robbing the company's safe. Mayfield had been threatening to kill me

if I didn't marry him and run away to Virginia with him. I escaped by

some means, I never could remember just how, for I was really sick and

delirious; I got back here only after days and days of wandering. How

he must have hated you, to die as he did! But he was blind.

"And the man in officer-blue was Lon, my brother!" she went on. "He

had himself made a deputy-sheriff, and went to hunt Cat-Eye Mayfield.

He didn't take any irons along; he meant to kill Mayfield. And that

miserable little ant--what a tiny, tiny thing to keep us apart for so

long! But life is like that."

"Well, we won't be separated again," said Wolfe, "unless Whitney Fair

has me prosecuted for helping my people get away."

"Whitney Fair is dead, and his family don't live in Johnsville any

more," Tot replied. "I'm sure nobody else will remember it against you."

In which she was correct.

News of Little Buck Wolfe's return spread rapidly. The people of

Utopia hastened to welcome him; the Masons came up in a little

passenger car carried by the daily ore train. It was a gala day, a

Christmas, a July Fourth, and a Thanksgiving Day, all in one.

[Illustration]

When the pointed shadow of Picketts Dome was reaching for the crest

of the Big Blackfern, Wolfe stole away with his wife to pay his

respects, as it were, to the one soul that had not been there to greet

him. Tot led the zigzag way up the bald peak, upon which the ironwood

cross still stood. They gathered sheafs of waxen-white laurel bloom,

and later they put these in reverence on a mound between the great

cross and a great boulder, the last earthly resting place of Grandpap

Singleton, who had been called the Prophet.

"There, look," Tot said in the hushed voice of one who speaks in an

atmosphere of holiness. She pointed. "The colonel had that done."

High on the even face of the huge stone had been cut in bold letters;

GRANDPAP WILLIAM SINGLETON

He, too, had drained life's iron chalice bravely. Wolfe's eyes dimmed.

And below the name, in the old hill dialect, had been chiseled in

smaller letters this gem from the Prophet's crude philosophy, which

well might ring down the centuries to come:

_To Them As Thinks The' Ain't No God

The' Ain't None, So Far As They're

Concerned_

THE NORTH WIND'S MESSAGE

By DANFORD G. BRITTON

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Outside the North Wind howls and blusters.

As I sit by the friendly hearth;

And a picture comes in the leaping flames

From the land of the mystic north.

Where the silent trails lie dim and pale

In the glistening ice and snow;

And the hunger cry of the lean wolves' wail

With the mercury sixty below.

There the jackpine's ghostly shadows

Ripple the snowy path;

While the gray clouds scud like a roaring flood

From the north wind's howling wrath.

And for those who travel that great white waste

In the numbing cold and frost,

Death lies in wait, like the hand of fate.

Stop fighting once--and you're lost.

But though the trail may be hard and crooked,

With many a twist and bend,

There's gold at the foot of the rainbow

For those who stick to the end.

Though it's not so much what you win,

If you lose, it's about the same;

But the test of a real man's metal, is,

Friend, are you still in the game?

So when you're near discouraged

And tempted to quit the fight,

Why remember the test of the long grim trail,

In the north land's arctic night.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

IN MEMORY OF HENRY CLAY MANLEY

By THOMAS McMORROW

WHERE WOULD YOU TURN IF YOUR WHOLE FUTURE DEPENDED ON YOUR EARNING

CAPACITY AT THE END OF EIGHTEEN MONTHS--AND YOU WERE OUT OF A JOB?

AN INTERESTING QUESTION TO A CERTAIN YOUNG AMERICAN, AND WITH AN

INTERESTING ANSWER

I

"Now, if _I_ was running this country," said Paul Manley, lighting a new

cigarette, and ending a diatribe against things as they were in the U.

S. A. in the year 1920, "I tell you what I'd do! First I'd----"

A customer descended hurriedly from One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street

into Hepp's Bargain Basement where Paul was employed as sales clerk.

"Want a pair of shoes!"

"What kind of shoes?" grumbled Paul. He would have liked his job in

Hepp's Bargain Basement well enough if it weren't for customers always

coming in and taking his mind off important affairs.

"A good, strong shoe I'm not hard to suit," said the customer, a

gray-haired and well-dressed business man.

"You're going to wear them--not me, mister," said Paul, yawning. He

rose slowly from the bench at the back of the little shop, and came

forward. He was a tall and skinny youth of about twenty.

"Sit down, will you?"

The customer sat down, thrust out his foot, and glanced at the clerk.

Manley had walked away toward the shelves. The customer grunted, pulled

a foot-rest to him, and began to unlace his shoe.

"I don't want a tan shoe," he said a moment later.

"I'm no mind-reader, mister," said Paul. He slapped the rejected shoe

back into the box, and pulled out another pair.

"I don't want a vici kid," said the customer.

"That's the style nowadays."

"I don't care. I don't want it!"

"Well, try it on, can't you?" grumbled Paul. "There, how does it feel?"

"It's too tight That's not my size."

"It certainly is your size! It's a 9-D, and that's what you've got on

right now. Don't tell me my business, mister. Look--see? That's your

size."

"I say it doesn't fit! And I don't want a vici kid, anyway. I can have

a good strong walking shoe if I want it, can't I?"

"Oh, you want a shoe for walking! Why didn't you say so in the first

place and save my time? Sure, you can have it; I got no objection. What

do you want to pay?"

"About six dollars."

"We don't keep cheap shoes, mister," said Paul, getting up from his

knees.

"I don't want a cheap shoe."

"Yes, you do! What do you call a six dollar shoe, if it ain't a cheap

shoe? Say, I might sell you one shoe for that."

"Young fellow," growled the customer, pulling on his own shoe again and

jabbing viciously at the eyelets, "you couldn't sell me any shoe at

all. You need a lesson in good manners, you do!"

"Go along now, mister," said Paul, reclining again on his bench.

"You're in the wrong store, see?

[Illustration]

"I guess I showed that fresh guy where he got off," he chuckled

satisfiedly as the enraged customer went stamping up the iron stairs to

One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street.

"Yah," grunted Ernest Birdsong, his fellow clerk from the ladder where

he was sorting stock. Ernest was a recent arrival from Europe.

Paul sprawled on the bench and lit a cigarette, which he "ate" in long,

lung-filling inhalations.

"There you go," he went on, "working your fat head off. You'll learn

better, or I miss my guess! You're some of this here blamed pauper

labor that wants to come here and lower the American standard of

living. You ain't got the mind of a free man, Birdy. Go ahead, and

work yourself to death, and see what you get for it! Old Hepp doesn't

care a whoop for you or for me, except what he can get out of us. I'm

telling you. That's where the old tight-wad's head is level; I don't

care a whoop for him except for what I can get out of him, see? He's

a blood-sucking capitalist, that's what old Hepp is. Pretty soft for

him--five stores, and not a blamed thing to do but go around from one

to the other, and crash the cash-register!"

"Yah, Mr. Paul," murmured Ernest inattentively.

"Aw, gosh!" yawned Paul. "I'm feeling all in today. Had a big time

last night, Birdy. Yep, we had a large time. Punished a quart between

three of us, we did. Say, Birdie, I know where I can get genuine _Old

Cobbler_, rye, for six bucks a bottle. You want some good booze?"

"No, Mr. Paul."

"Say, Birdy, I feel like taking in a movie today. There's nothing

doing here, and you're going to stay anyhow, ain't you? Old Hepp won't

be back until six, or half-past. You can take care of the store by

yourself, can't you? I'll do as much for you some time. If old Hepp

pops in, you say I got sick, and went around to see a doctor. So

long--see you some more. Don't take any wooden money!"

II

He pulled on his overcoat, which was built out at the shoulders until

it gave Paul still another of Jack Dempsey's dimensions. He adjusted

it until he was as wide on one side as on the other, pulled out his

cravat until it bowed, slanted his velour hat over one eye, and strode

from the store. He strode; Paul's self-respect depended on his clothes.

He never strode in a bathing-suit. When he was in a bathing-suit he

sidled, and walked modestly, and even somewhat slinkingly, feeling

distressingly naked. But now he strode, swinging his wide shoulders,

and looking the world in the eye to stare it down.

He went over to the Belvedere--continuous, eleven to eleven, fifteen

cents for the best seat in the house.

He had a crush on the young lady cashier of the Belvedere, who sat in

a box in the middle of the foyer from eleven to eleven with intervals

out, and worked an apparatus which caused tickets to sprout in the

slab before her as often as she was paid fifteen cents. Her single eye

to his fifteen cents had titivated Paul's interest; as she could gaze

upon him without excitement he thought she must be a very superior

person. She had a share in securing his steady custom for the Belvedere.

"It'll be a nice day, if it don't rain," he said to her, and smiled

fascinatingly.

She made an assenting noise through her broad, common sense nose, and

did her trick with the apparatus.

"It'll be a long day, if it don't shrink!" he tried again, with a fixed

grin. Paul could not afford a vaudeville show more than twice per week,

and he tried to remember the jokes.

She looked up at him with a slight contraction of her brows. "I beg

your pardon?" she said.

Paul leaned on the slab, and twisted his mouth sideways to spring the

gag again; he felt that he had her going, at least a little.

"Shake it up!" called an impatient patron from the line.

Paul turned his shoulders slowly about, and surveyed the line, and

knitted his black brows at a little man whose eyes were as innocent and

timorous as a rabbit's.

"Are you in a hurry?" he asked in a bass voice.

"No!" exclaimed the little man.

"Then don't try to hurry me!" said Paul, swinging his shoulders back

again, and letting his heavy frown rest on the young lady cashier for a

moment, so that she might see what kind of a man he was.

[Illustration]

He came out of the Belvedere at half-past five. His face was flushed

from generous emotion and bad air, and his eyes were glassy from

protracted staring at "Black Roger of Brimstone Gulch." An intending

patron was talking to the young lady cashier.

"I say I give you a two!" shouted the patron.

"It was a one," said the cashier patiently. "Take your change, please.

There's the dollar you gave me."

"That's a dollar fast enough," said the patron, "but it ain't the

dollar I give you, because I didn't give you no dollar. I give you a

two!"

"Do you want your dollar back?"

The patron, a short and dark-faced young man, drew back, lifted his

shoulders, sighed noisily, and uttered an oath. It was not a very

gross imprecation--he recognized that he was talking to a lady, and

the rather suave way in which he swore almost robbed the utterance of

offence.

"Here!" called Paul. "How dare you use language to a lady?"

"Is that so?" breathed the patron, turning.

Paul Manley narrowed his eyes and looked very bleakly at the low-set

young man. "You heard me," he said.

"Wait a minute, lady," said the patron, waving a hand behind him as he

lurched toward Paul. "Just wait a minute. Listen, fellow, what are you

butting in for? Do you want a good smack in the nose?"

"Well, that's no way to talk to a girl," said Paul, weakening.

"Then I'll talk to you the same way!" He crowded up against Paul and

shoved him back against the wall of the foyer. "Come on, you big

cake-eater, and put up your hands! So you're working with her, are you?"

"Knock the big stiff out, Jimmy!" yelled a comrade joyfully.

"She's nothing to me," mumbled Paul, his bluff caving completely. "On

the level, she isn't! Don't hit me. I didn't mean anything--honest, I

didn't!"

"You're a liar," snarled Jimmy, roused to fury by the prospect of an

easy victory. With sound military instinct he swung his fist for Paul's

jaw, leaping forward and pivoting with the blow.

"Cheese it, Jimmy!" yelled his ally. "She's coming out!"

The young lady cashier had blown her police whistle and had flung open

the door of her cage. She had evidently a reputation for peace-keeping,

for Jimmy, who was tearing at Paul like a wolf at a sheep, now bent

forward and hunched his shoulders toward his ears and ran off. Paul had

crouched and covered up, and had taken the weight of his vicious blow

on the forearm, but it had staggered him, and shaken his velour hat

over his nose and dislocated the shoulders of his overcoat.

"Let me alone!" he yelled, when he felt her hand on his arm.

"He's gone," she said.

He straightened, coughed, and shook himself into order. She was gazing

at him soberly, understandingly, and yet with an effect of admiring him.

"You're terribly hot-tempered, aren't you?" she said.

"That fellow was enough to make anybody mad."

"It was nice of you to take my part," she said. "I'm awfully obliged.

As a usual thing I blow my whistle and get the policeman; there aren't

many fellows will step up and take a girl's part, like you!"

"Well," said Paul, in a deeper and more assured tone, "that's the kind

of man I am, I guess! I always stand up for a lady!"

"It was very brave of you. You're all right now, aren't you?"

"You bet I'm all right. Lucky for him he took me unawares. Why, say, I

could work around him like a copper around a barrel!"

"I bet," she said. And she smiled at him again, nodded, and skipped

back into her box.

Restored to his own good opinion by her deftness, Paul swaggered back

to Hepp's Bargain Basement. He knew that she had seen the episode, and

that she could not have misinterpreted it; but still he had not lost

face.

Hepp was waiting for him. "Where were you the last two hours?"

"Aw, I wasn't feeling right."

Hepp, a short and big-bellied man with a pink and shining head,

compressed his lips. "Look here, Manley, did you make this sale?"

[Illustration]

"Yes," said Paul, glancing at the sales-slip. "That's some of my work,

Mr. Hepp!"

"I might have recognized it. You sold this pair of shoes to a colored

fellow, and he left his old shoes to be sent home. Well, he was in here

just now, raising Cain, and threatening to cut me. You sent him a pair

of ladies' dancing pumps in the box instead of his shoes, and he says

he forgot the ten dollar bill that he had hidden in his old shoe. And

he wanted it!"

"Aw, he's a liar!"

"Maybe so, but I was in no position to argue. Here's two dollars."

"What for? Thank you, Mr. Hepp!"

"For your pay up to tonight--twelve dollars, less the ten that I had to

give to the colored fellow. Manley, you've got too much brains for the

shoe business. You've got too much on your mind besides selling shoes.

So we're going to part company. Keep your hat and coat on."

"You want me to quit?"

"Exactly," said Hepp, walking away. "Good luck, and good-by!"

"Then I'll quit!" shouted Paul indignantly. "I'll quit right here and

now! Say, Hepp, I want to tell you a few. The matter with you is you

don't know how to treat a white man. You're a blamed old slave-driver,

that's what you are! You're a mean, stingy old tight-wad! Where do

you get that stuff--trying to fire me? Why, say, you old dumb-bell, I

forgot more about the shoe business than you ever knew! I got too much

brains for you--that's what's the matter. What do you know, anyhow? Put

your hat on, you old fool--you're half-naked!"

He left the store hurriedly, and ran to the street. He had not had time

to remember all the gags which he had saved up in loving anticipation

of just this occasion, but he felt he had done pretty well.

"I guess I told him where he got off!" he jubilated.

III

Paul lay in bed late the following morning. He was not much worried; he

was out of a job, but he had been out of a job often before. He argued

himself into feeling no shame at his discharge; after all, that was

the natural end to any term of employment. He twisted and rolled in

bed, holding his eyes shut, trying to hang onto sleep, but it finally

escaped him.

He rose, dressed slowly, pushed over his ninety-eight cent alarm clock

and walked down the stairs of his rooming-house.

"Mail, Mr. Manley!" called his landlady.

Paul glanced at the inscription of the envelope--"_Beaks & Sipperman,

Attorneys-at-law, 32 Nassau Street, New York City_." Under his

landlady's curious gaze he dropped it into his pocket.

He opened it in the cafeteria while eating his twenty-cent Club

Breakfast.

Nov. 16th, 1920.

Dear Sir:

If you are the nephew of Henry Clay Manley, formerly of this city,

we beg to inform you that your uncle died in August last in Omaha.

The will is to be probated in this state, and our Mr. Beaks is

nominated as executor and trustee. As you are the only heir-at-law

of the testator, and are also a beneficiary under said trust, we

request that you call upon us at your first convenience to receive

citation and to be advised of your interest. Your uncle left a

considerable estate.

Ask for our Mr. Beaks.

Very truly yours.

"Uncle Harry!" exclaimed Paul with shining eyes. "After all the letters

I wrote him asking him to do something for me, and getting nothing out

of him but hot air and advice, he dies and leaves me his fortune! Well,

that is what I call handsome of him!"

He did not know his uncle Harry personally; Henry Clay Manley had

gone to the West before Paul was born, and had never revisited New

York. Paul had then no sentiment toward him, other than the anomalous

kindliness which anyone must feel toward a stranger who has been

good enough to die and leave him money. He was even able to see that

his uncle had shown foresight and wisdom in turning down his begging

letters.

He scalded his mouth with hot coffee, and ran from the lunchroom to the

subway kiosk. He saved a nickel by running the three blocks; he saved

another nickel by dropping into the turnstile at the station a metal

slug which a shifty-eyed street fakir had sold him at six for five,

and which was as good as a nickel for all the purposes of the Transit

Company, save one. Paul beat his fare when he could, and refused to see

harm in it; it cost the traction company nothing extra to carry him,

whereas paying his fare would have made to him the poignant difference

of a nickel.

He entered the Mutual Life building at 32 Nassau Street and wandered

through the ramifying halls of that commodious and old-fashioned

structure until he found a door upon whose ground glass was lettered

_Beaks & Sipperman_.

Mr. Beaks was at his piled desk in his private room. He was a big, old

man with faded blue eyes; his manner was suave and cold.

[Illustration]

"I'm in conference, Miss Prouty, until Mr. Manley leaves," he said to

the office-girl. "Don't disturb me. Sit here, Mr. Manley."

He picked a red-ribboned document from a pigeonhole, snapped it open,

stared at it, and blew through his lips softly and reflectively.

"This is your uncle's will. Did you know him very well?"

"Never saw him. He always lived out West."

"It's an unusual will, Mr. Manley. Did you ever write to your uncle,

asking money of him?"

"More than once," grinned Paul.

"Yes; he left a queer will, and I'm not very thankful to him for making

me trustee. However--he was an old friend. There's a trust provision

here, Mr. Manley, for your benefit--or for the benefit of the Platte

County Home for the Feeble-minded, as the event may prove. Your uncle's

estate, Mr. Manley, should amount to ninety-five or one hundred

thousand dollars after debts, funeral expenses, inheritance taxes,

etc., have been paid. Are you working?"

"Not just now."

"What salary were you getting last?"

"Seventeen dollars per week."

"Listen to this clause, Mr. Manley:

"I have given much thought to the question of my responsibility

toward my sister's son, Paul Manley, of the City and State of New

York, who is my nearest relative and my only heir-at-law. It has

seemed to me that this, my nephew, was an idle and worthless youth;

nevertheless I feel that I should fail in my duty toward him,

and toward the memory of my beloved sister, if I should make no

provision for him in this my last will and testament.

"I do therefore ordain as a first charge upon the trust fund, that

my said nephew shall receive monthly during the term of his natural

life a sum equal to the monthly wage, salary or income which he

is earning at any honest employment. So that my said nephew may

make fullest avail of this bequest, I direct that the earned income

above referred to shall be the earned income of which he is in

receipt eighteen months after he has been given personal notice of

the terms of this provision. After my said nephew's decease, the

principal of the trust fund with accumulations shall be paid over

to the _Platte County Home for the Feeble-minded_, on the single

condition that the name of that institution be changed to _The

Henry Clay Manley Memorial_.

"So far," continued Mr. Beaks, looking over his spectacles at Paul, "we

have plain sailing. You have now been put on notice. Eighteen months

from today payments to you will begin, on the basis of the salary you

are then earning."

"How much could I get?" breathed Paul.

[Illustration]

"Between five and six thousand per year; between four and five hundred

dollars per month."

Paul's eyes dilated. "But how am I to live until then?"

"You might begin to earn it."

"Work!" exclaimed Paul indignantly. "With all that money coming to me?"

"Your uncle," said Beaks, removing his glasses to polish them

leisurely, "seems to have understood your bent of mind. You may work

little or much as you please. But you will receive a stipend equal only

to the income you are earning from honest work eighteen months hence!

I see that term is ungrateful to you, here is one which you may like

better:

"The above provision is upon the express term and condition that my

said nephew shall engage in no remunerative work after he begins to

receive this income from the trust fund. There shall be deducted

from the payments to be made him sums equal to any moneys which

he shall be receiving from any other sources; so that, to take

full advantage of this provision for him, my said nephew shall be

required to abandon all efforts to support himself, and to engage

in no remunerative work whatsoever.

"In other words," said Beaks, "you are debarred from earning your own

living so long as you take this money; you are expressly forbidden to

work!"

"Is there anything else?" asked Paul, wondering why Beaks paused.

"You have no objection to that?"

"Of course not! You don't think I'd be fool enough to work if I didn't

have to, do you? That's only common sense, that part. Up to six

thousand per year--why, say, I'll live in clover!"

"Your confidence is inspiring," said Beaks in a tone that was slightly

nasal. "There is one further provision, covering the contingency that

you will refuse to accept the proposed annuity according to its terms."

"You need not bother to read that part, Mr. Beaks," said Paul politely.

But Beaks proceeded to read it, unheeding:

"If my said nephew shall refuse to accept the said beneficial

interest according to its terms, he shall receive nothing whatever

from my estate, but my entire estate shall be divided, share and

share alike, among the institutions named in the sealed letter

of instructions which will be found in my vault of deposit and

which will be given unopened to my executor and trustee. To avoid

raising expectations which might be disappointed, and to prevent

any attempt at collusion between my said nephew and possibly venal

officials of these institutions or any of them, I hereby enjoin

and direct my said executor and trustee to preserve this letter of

instructions inviolate and unopened until my said nephew shall, at

the end and termination of the said period of eighteen months, have

definitely refused and rejected the above mentioned life-estate in

the trust fund."

"When I do," nodded Paul. "Believe me, if they are going to wait until

I throw that easy money over my shoulder they are going to wait!"

"There is the letter to which the will refers," said Beaks, pointing to

the pigeonhole. "As it is to all effects and purposes a part of this

will, it should be proven with the will; the Surrogate may decide that

the institutions referred to are entitled to citation. On the other

hand, the will vests me with the power of sale during the eighteen

months, so that there is no suspension of the power of alienation.

We may have to withhold the will from probate until the end of the

eighteen-month period.

"However," he said, sitting up to his desk again, "these worries do

not interest you! I shall find a way to carry out my old friend's

wishes. Good day, Mr. Manley! Don't forget to come here eighteen months

from today, and after you have formally accepted the bequest I shall

commence to pay you seventeen dollars a week."

"Seventeen dollars per week!"

"Unless the wage-level should fall, Mr. Manley, as some economists

predict. After having had the pleasure of knowing you, it seems to me

highly improbable that I shall be required to pay you more."

"Well," said Paul, suddenly troubled, "it will be a whole lot more than

that--but--where in thunder am I to get a job that will pay me five or

six thousand per year?"

"That is for you to discover," said Beaks, smiling moonishly at him

through his glasses. "You will certainly be a very exceptional young

man if you get it. Here is a copy of the will. Ponder it. Digest it.

Note the provision that the trust is to lapse as to you if you contest

it. You have my best wishes, and I am sure that you had the best wishes

of your uncle, as well as his lively distrust. You have eighteen months

during which you may fix the income you shall receive during the

lifetime of inactivity whose prospect seems to please you. You may call

me up, if there is anything I can explain. Good day!"

He picked up his desk telephone. "The conference is ended, Miss

Prouty," he said.

IV

Paul went down into the subway in a daze; so distraught was he that he

dropped a real nickel into the turnstile.

[Illustration]

Five or six thousand per year! He didn't know anybody who made such a

royal salary. He knew, by hearsay, that such lucky fellows existed; he

supposed that the towering buildings of lower New York must house a

number of them. He had heard that movie actors made a million dollars

per year apiece, but such large sums meant nothing to him--as, in all

probability, they mean nothing to many movie actors. Men in banks,

where money is visible in heaps, made no such salaries; he knew a

paying-teller in a Harlem bank who sat amid currency like a junkman

amid bundles of old newspapers, and he made per week only twenty-three

dollars.

But, if he could only get it, what couldn't he do with five or six

thousand per year! Why, he couldn't waste time working if he was

ever to spend so much money; his uncle had shown sense there. For

ten dollars per week he could get a large and sunny room in a swell

apartment, with hot and cold water, steam heat, electric light, and

breakfast optional. He would have a belted dressing-gown--five dollars

in Sonnenthal's--and a smoking table with Virginia and Turkish and

English cigarettes. After his optional breakfast he would lay off in an

easy chair, and read three or four newspapers--he had never had time

to read newspapers thoroughly. He would smoke cigarettes, yawning and

tapping his mouth, and glancing occasionally through the window to see

ordinary people hurrying about their work.

If the day was fine he would take a stroll down Seventh Avenue--he

pictured the apartment as situated on Seventh Avenue--and in the

afternoon he would take in a matinee; the best matinees in Harlem could

be taken in complete for a dollar. When the show was done he would

stroll and saunter some more, across One Hundred and Twenty-fifth

Street, slapping his stick jauntily against his faultlessly creased

trouser-leg, watching common working people exuding wearily from stores

and offices and lofts, nodding slightly to his friends. He would dine

at a Greek restaurant, a rotisserie, at a secluded little table beneath

a pink shade, waving the obsequious waiter and the menu away, and

ordering the Regular Dinner like a lord.

He would invite fellows to his rooms--he did not see that he could

utilize more than one room, but rooms would be the right word. He would

have a square-face of gin in his rooms--he could get it for two and a

half, and the real stuff--and he would have rye, and a bottle of pale

and smoky Scotch.

But all this would not exhaust five or six thousand per year. Sometimes

he would go to other fellows' rooms, and would drink free of their rye

and their Scotch. He would have a lot of money left over, week after

week.

Well--he could play the ponies! He had always wanted to play the

ponies, but the game had been too rich for his blood. But five or six

thousand per year would be ample. It would be more than he could use.

Why, even fifty per week would be wonderful; that would be three times

the salary on which he had been managing to get along. He didn't know

any fellow who was making fifty per week. He would be as snug inside it

as a worm inside a nut. But----

[Illustration]

He had to get it. Even if he was modest enough to be satisfied with it,

he would not get it until he had earned it. What had possessed his old

fool of an uncle to stick such a joker in? Why, Paul could not begin to

earn fifty per week in a month of Sundays! Spend it? Well, yes, there

was some chance of that. But earn it? Get some miserable tight-wad of

an employer to put into his glad hand five big, crinkly, glistening,

vividly green ten-dollar bills every Saturday? He could see him doing

it--yes, he could!

[Illustration]

So, sunk in an April state of mind, alternating glorious sunshine and

overcast weather, he arrived at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street

again, walked west, toward the Belvedere. He did not know why he was

going there; but there was one person who knew something about him, one

person who had caught a glimpse of him, one person upon whom he had not

imposed a fictitious Paul Manley.

The pleasant-faced cashier was just going to lunch. Paul lifted his

hat; she was passing him with a curt nod when she noticed that his face

was troubled.

"Listen," he said, "could I talk to you a little bit? I want to ask you

something. Can I take you to lunch?"

"If you let me pay my own."

"Oh, sure, that will be all right! Let's go over to the Palace

cafeteria; that's a nice place and they got tables for ladies."

He escorted her into the lunchroom, and took off his hat when he sat

down. The numerous unaccompanied men in the place wore their hats.

"Let's have some of that ox-tail braise," he suggested. "It's nice

here. It's made out of the tail of an ox."

"Maybe," she said. "We have it in our house on Mondays, ox-tail

soup--my mother makes it out of the neck of a chicken!"

They laughed. "Two ox-tail braises," ordered Paul.

"Listen," he said, after they had exchanged introductions, "An uncle

of mine died, and left me a big fortune!"

"You always have a new one, Mr. Manley," she said with expectant smile.

"Well, go ahead and spring it."

"Spring what?"

"The joke! Or am I supposed to ask something? Who is your uncle, or

what did he die of, or something like that? I'm awful slow, Mr. Manley."

"This ain't a joke. Well, it is a kind of a joke, too. Read over this

letter, and then I'll tell you about it."

She read the letter, and then he told her about it. "So now you see

what I'm up against. Where in heck am I to pull down five or six

thousand per year?"

"Oh, you could do it if you put your mind down to it. What do you work

at?"

"Well, just now I am not working. To tell you the truth, I got canned

yesterday. I was working over in Hepp's Bargain Basement, and the boss

got me sore, and I got right up and told him where he got off. You know

I got a hot temper."

"What were you getting?"

"Seventeen dollars."

"That's not much for a fellow like you. Don't you know any trade?"

"Nothing better than selling shoes."

[Illustration]

He spoke in a low tone of voice, glancing guardedly about him to see

that he was not overheard. Mingled with his humiliation, he felt a

certain rare pleasure in telling this girl the truth; but he was quite

content to enjoy this pleasure at her expense only, and would probably

have been very unhappy if it had been broadcasted that Paul Manley had

been fired from a job which paid seventeen dollars a week.

"Oh, I can get another job easily enough," he said. "I've had so many

jobs that I know about what to say. It's always easier to get a job

than to hold it, is my experience."

She stared at him in reflection. "Do you know what I would do, if I

were you?"

"That's just what I'm asking."

"Then listen here. You're going to get as much money as you're earning

a year and a half from now, isn't that so? Very well. Now what are you

going to earn it at? The thing you know best is selling shoes. But if

you go into a shoe store and ask for a job, they're going to ask where

you worked last, and then it will come out that you were fired. You

will start off with a black eye. The best thing you can do is to go

right back to Hepp's, and ask for your job back."

"I should say not! Me ask that old crab for a job?"

"Supposing he is an old crab, what do you care? All you want is to work

up to a good salary, isn't it? And you are not going to stay there

for good. If you stayed there for a year and a half, and worked up to

a good salary, then he would be sorry to lose you, and you could get

right up and tell him to keep his old job!"

"Do you really think he would be sorry to lose me?" asked Paul

doubtingly.

"Why, certainly! And that would be some satisfaction, wouldn't it?"

"Well, I guess he will not give me the job back. He didn't know how to

appreciate a man, Hepp didn't!"

"You are worrying too much about Mr. Hepp, and what he thinks. Will you

go around and ask him for the job back?"

"I would not do it for anybody else in the world, but I will," he said,

bowing his high spirit. "Since you ask me to, Miss Hazeltine! I will

give Hepp one more chance!"

V

He found Hepp in his Lenox Avenue store; Hepp had five of these

basement establishments, devoted to selling samples and jobs at cut

prices.

"Well?" snapped Hepp, contracting his flaxen eyebrows.

"Mr. Hepp," mumbled Paul, "I find I made a mistake."

"About time you found that out--seeing that you've been making nothing

but mistakes ever since I took you on. Well, what do you want me to do

about it?"

"I'd like my job back, Mr. Hepp. I've been thinking it over, and I see

where I was wrong, and I see the right thing to do is to come back and

tell you. If you take me on again, Mr. Hepp, you'll never get a chance

to fire me again!"

Hepp grunted, with a twinkle of malice in his eyes. "I don't know what

you want to work for a slave-driver like me for."

"You're not a slave-driver, Mr. Hepp. You always treated me pretty

white!"

"Excepting for the salary. Seeing that I am a darned old tight-wad and

that you know all about the shoe business already, I don't see what you

want to come in here for. I'm nothing but an old fool!"

"I take it all back, Mr. Hepp."

"Very well, Manley," said Hepp, nodding and walking away.

"Do I get my job back, Mr. Hepp?"

"No!" cried Hepp, who was not at all forgiving.

Paul lingered by the door for another word. He had made up his mind

to have this job. He felt that he must have it. And with matters

so, with the scales tilted against him, he looked at the stairs and

saw descending the gray-haired gentleman whom he had dismissed so

cavalierly from the One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street store the day

before. By a cruel stroke of fortune, the customer was still seeking

the shoes which Paul had denied him, and now he had come here to ruin

Paul's slim chance. He would recognize Paul, complain to Hepp, and Paul

would be finished.

Paul scowled at him as he entered. The customer looked at him.

With sudden recklessness Paul dismissed his scowl, put on an urbane

smile, and stepped forward.

"Good afternoon, sir!" he said, chafing his hands together.

[Illustration]

"Want a pair of shoes," grumbled the customer. "And for heaven's sake,

hurry up!"

"Yes, sir," said Paul, springing to a foot-rest, and snapping it into

place under the gentleman's foot. "A good, strong walking shoe, I

suppose? Something about six dollars?"

"Exactly!" said the customer with surprise.

"We have the very thing will please you, sir," said Paul, putting his

customer's unshod foot down with reverence.

"You're not taking my size!"

"I will if you wish, sir, but I should say a 9-D would be about right."

"It _is_ right," said the customer, who had not recognized Paul.

"This is our style A515, sir. May I try it on? We sell these mostly

to customers of your standing. It's a strong shoe, but still rather

dressy."

"Feels pretty good," said the customer, standing up. "The left one is a

little snug in the toe."

"I'll stretch it a bit, if you wish. Or would you rather try a larger

size. I wouldn't advise you to, but it won't be any trouble to try it.

That's what we're here for!"

"No, these will do. You might stretch that left one a bit at the toe."

Hepp had stalked menacingly forward, but had halted when he saw that

the customer could not be disengaged from Paul without a small scene.

He stood by, watching. Paul carried away the offending shoe.

"You know your business, young man," said the customer satisfiedly.

"We do our best to please people," smiled Paul.

"Not all of them do," frowned the customer. "I was in a shoe store

yesterday, and had words with the laziest and most impudent young puppy

I ever met in my life! But you seem to know how to handle people here.

Well, good day to you. You'll see me again!"

He left the shop.

"Mr. Hepp," said Paul, "can I have my job back?"

"You took it!" grinned his employer. "You might as well keep it now!"

During his supper hour he hurried up to the Belvedere, and spoke to

Miss Molly Hazeltine through her little window. It was half-past six,

and she was not busy.

"Fine!" she said, smiling at him with warm and friendly eyes. "I knew

you could do it!"

"I didn't," said Paul. "Gosh, it takes a girl to show a fellow what

he can do. If you would only stay my friend, Miss Hazeltine, and keep

tipping me off to things I can do, I bet I will have a salary in

eighteen months that will make that old crab of a lawyer look sick. We

will see if he is going to pay me any seventeen dollars a week!"

"That's the talk," she said. "Show him how much he knows--it is a whole

lot better than just telling him."

"You got Sunday off, haven't you?"

"Every Sunday."

"Maybe we could take a little walk. I got an awful lot to discuss with

you, Miss Hazeltine. If I could take a walk with you every Sunday, and

come around and see you between times----"

"You could come around and take me for a walk next Sunday, Mr. Manley.

Or what do you say if you come around to dinner first, and meet my

mother? I was telling her about you."

"Next Sunday!"

VI

It may help us to understand the change in Paul Manley if we shadow him

while he is in the company of Miss Molly Hazeltine. Paul had resolved

well; but a long course of conduct, as many can tell, is not stably

founded on any mere resolution. It must be founded on character; on

some one else's character, if need be, until repetition breeds habit in

the subject.

"Here's an ad in the paper today," said Molly, "that says, 'Corporation

formed complete for fifty-seven dollars.' That does not look as if a

corporation amounted to so much. What is a corporation anyway, Paul?"

"Gosh, Molly, you've got your asking clothes on today again! You

wouldn't know any more about these matters if I was to talk to you all

day."

"You know so many things that I don't," she said regretfully. "Oh,

Paul, I met the nicest fellow over at the church supper last night!

He's an instructor at Columbia, and he knows more than any man I ever

met, excepting you, Paul. I'll ask him, Paul, but he doesn't explain

half so nicely as you do."

"Well, I'm a practical business man," said Paul. "Naturally, I would

understand about practical matters better than any college professor.

Don't mind asking him, now."

"What is this here about Stormy Meeting In Board of Estimate? What do

they do?"

"I got to run along, Molly," said Paul, frowning at his watch. "See you

some more, Molly!"

That afternoon, in his free time, he strolled into the local Y. M.

C. A. reading room, to pass an hour with the magazines on file. He

read an exciting story of life among savages in the South Seas, and

another about a young man's great fight against a grasping corporation

in the Yukon country. These stories thrilled him, as ever, but the

thrill was not followed by the old reaction of dissatisfaction and

discouragement; he was learning that there was place and opportunity

for the most strenuous young man even in New York. He put the magazine

back in the rack, and sauntered to the bulletin-board.

"What's civics?" he inquired at the desk. "I see there's a course to be

given in that."

"It tells you all about Government. You ought to take that, and then

you'll know what you're voting about. It's free, except that you have

to buy the book."

"Put me down for it, will you?" requested Paul. "Lots of questions pop

into my mind about such things, and I can't think of the answer!"

One Sunday night Molly treated him to the performance at the Belvedere.

The picture had to do with the perils and triumphs of an American

youth in a banana republic. The hero of the picture had been nobody in

particular in the United States, but he was an American, and when he

arrived in the capital of the southern country he promptly took the

center of the stage by right of birth. He had failed in business in

the United States, but down there he seized hold of affairs--economic,

social, political--with amazing verve and ability. In due course, he

married the beautiful daughter of the dictator, and arranged to take

over the country in bulk--but we have only to do with the episode

wherein he was rescued from man-eating land-crabs by a detail of U. S.

Marines.

[Illustration]

"Yea-a!" exhaled Paul with delight and relief when the forefront of the

gallant Marines appeared on the jungle trail, spurring to the rescue

with excellent horsemanship.

"You're hurting my hand," said Molly. "They do look fine, don't they? I

just love soldiers!"

"Good old leathernecks," sighed Paul. "I tell you what, Molly, it takes

us Americans to show those people where they get off!"

"It certainly does," said Molly. "I bet you could get to be a dictator

of one of those countries, too, Paul."

"Well," said Paul slowly, "seeing that I am an American, I guess I

would have the bulge on them all right."

"Some of those South Americans look awfully mean. You would have to

watch out for them, Paul. That was a machine-gun that he killed Don

Henriquez' army with, wasn't it? How does a machine-gun work, Paul?"

"Well, it is quite a complicated mechanism. I do not think I could

explain it to you so you would understand."

"Did you ever see one?"

"Not so as to examine it. Not real close. But I learn quickly about

firearms. I had a pistol once, and my mother took it off me, or I bet I

would be a dead shot by now."

"You would look grand in a uniform, Paul. I always say a real tall man

looks grand in a uniform!"

"Not so poor, I guess."

"Listen, Paul, Pete Forest's regiment in the National Guard has got a

smoker on for next Saturday night, and Pete told me he has to bring

along an outsider. So I promised him you would go with him. I told him

you would carry the flag for them, and he said he would speak to the

color-sergeant about it, but meanwhile for you to come around."

"You might have asked me first."

"But I knew you'd enjoy it. It's just camping out, Paul, and that's

fun. Pete Forest says you'll have the time of your life, being that you

are fond of walking; and if you get tired or hungry, you can tell the

complaint-sergeant and he will see about it. You'll go, won't you?"

"Oh, I suppose so!"

VII

"Mr. Manley," said the office-girl.

"Show him in," said Mr. Beaks, glancing at the calendar which showed a

date in May, 1922.

Paul and Molly entered. Paul looked nervous but determined; Molly

wore that look of tranquil beatitude which the world cannot give to a

girl, unless it has first given her an engagement ring with a genuine

solitaire diamond in it. She was wearing the ring, and not trying to

hide it.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Beaks," said Paul. "Miss Hazeltine--Mr. Beaks!"

Chairs were taken.

"I suppose you have come in regard to the trust under your uncle's

will," said Beaks, reaching into the pigeonhole for the red-ribboned

document. "May I ask you, Mr. Manley, what salary you are receiving?"

"Thirty-two dollars per week. I'm manager of one of Hepp's Bargain

Basements, up in Harlem."

"Indeed! That is a great improvement over an earning capacity of

seventeen dollars per week, and no employment. I congratulate you, Mr.

Manley! You must have worked hard and steadily during the past eighteen

months."

"I worked," nodded Paul curtly. He did not like Beaks.

"You are coming into a very nice thing," purred Beaks. "Thirty-two

dollars per week for the term of your natural life! Many lawyers don't

net that much, Mr. Manley. You should be able to live very nicely on

it."

"Listen to me," said Paul gruffly. "That part about my not working any

more; I've been talking that over with Miss Hazeltine here, and we've

decided to make you a proposition! I'm a business man, and I'm talking

business. I can make a whole lot more than thirty-two dollars per week

later on, but on the other hand I don't see why I should have to lose

all that money. I'll take half of it--sixteen dollars a week--and the

Feeble-minded Home can have the other sixteen--providing you take out

that part about my not working! Come, is that fair?"

[Illustration]

"A very fair proposition," said Mr. Beaks, polishing his glasses with

his bandanna. "I should certainly advise the officials of the Home to

accept it, if it rested with me. But, unfortunately, Mr. Manley, I am

simply a trustee, and I must abide by the terms of the trust instrument

which created me. I have no discretion. You must take thirty-two

dollars per week, with the stipulation that if you earn any money it

will be deducted--or you must take nothing. As the will is drawn, and

as I construe it, you must make your final and binding decision today.

"I beg to point out to you that you have no reason to feel harshly

toward your uncle. You have already received incalculable benefits from

his provision for you. When you came here eighteen months ago, you

would have taken your then salary of seventeen dollars per week and you

would very willingly have refrained from ever working again. You will

pardon me if I say that you were at that time unfit to be given money;

you were idle, unambitious, and I think, rather dissipated. I am an

old man, Mr. Manley, and an old lawyer, and I have seen many times the

deplorable effects of freeing young men from the discipline of honest

work. You have had now before you for eighteen months an incentive to

do your best--the hope of never having to work again. You now confront

the fact that you don't want what you strove so hard to get. That's a

common human experience, Mr. Manley. I can do nothing for you; if you

refuse to accept this money according to its terms, it must all go to

the institutions named in the letter of instruction here."

Paul looked into Molly's eyes, and then he straightened.

"I'm not going to take it," he said.

"This is your final decision?"

"It is. I'm not a bum; I can make my own living. When I can't--why,

then I'll move into the Home for the Feeble-minded!"

"Oh, Paul!" cried Molly. "I'm so glad!"

"Allow me to congratulate you again, my boy," said Beaks, rising and

clasping Paul's hand. "I'm sure you've done exactly what your uncle

hoped. If you took this money it would have ruined you, or, better,

it would have proven you lazy and worthless. Your uncle was a shrewd

and penetrating man of affairs; in this matter he has shown no

feeble-mindedness worthy of commemoration."

He bowed the young couple out.

They had entered the hall, and were waiting for an elevator, when the

office-girl came running out to them.

"Mr. Beaks wants you again, please!"

They re-entered the law office. Beaks waved them to chairs, and

continued his study of the letter of instructions, which he had opened

upon their leaving.

They waited in silence.

He turned abruptly, and thrust, into Paul's hand the single sheet of

heavy paper which had been contained in the letter of instructions.

Upon it, in pen and ink, were these words only:

_Institutions referred to in my will which are to receive the

principal of my estate upon my only nephew's refusal to accept

trust provision._

_NONE._

_Henry Clay Manley._

"What--what does it mean?" asked Paul.

"It means," said Mr. Beaks, "that your uncle died intestate, except for

the provision for the payment of funeral expenses, debts, taxes and my

fees. The trust has terminated, and I am now required to pay over the

principal to the rightful heirs. Inasmuch as he has made no disposition

of his estate, it must go according to the Table of Descent."

"To whom?"

"To you, Mr. Manley!" said Mr. Beaks. "You are the only heir-at-law.

Your uncle had the right to leave the money elsewhere, but he has not

done so."

"Then I'm to get the whole thing," muttered Paul dazedly. "I--I don't

understand this. Don't joke with me. I don't believe it. Six thousand

per year! No, no. Are you telling me the truth? Molly, you heard him?

Prove it to me. Give me five hundred dollars!"

"Currency?"

"Yes, real money."

They watched Beaks bending down before his safe, and twirling the knob,

and methodically counting a sheaf of greenbacks.

"Here it is, Mr. Manley. And I wish to say----"

[Illustration]

He stared after them. Paul had caught Molly by the hand and was

hurrying with her to the door.

He bundled her into an elevator, and then pulled her out into Nassau

Street.

"What's the matter, Paul?" she cried, joyously but perplexedly.

"The Municipal Building closes at four o'clock!" he said, urging her

on. "If we don't get there in ten minutes, we can't get the marriage

license today! No, tomorrow won't do! Hurry up, Molly, can't you run a

little faster? I've had dreams like this before, and I'm not going to

sleep again until this one comes true!"

EARLIEST BUILDING STRIKE ON RECORD

Labor troubles in the building trades are not as modern as most people

think. A recently discovered Egyptian inscription records the fact that

the laborers employed on one of the pyramids struck and refused to go

on with the work unless their daily ration of onions was increased.

They won the strike.

[Illustration]

FIRES OF FATE

BY W. C. TUTTLE

_Author of "Cultus Collins and the Ghost Gold," "The Proof of

Progress," etc.,_

IT TOOK A BUNCH OF CROOKS ALONG THE CANADIAN BORDER QUITE A LONG

TIME TO LEARN THEIR LESSON--THAT YOU CAN BUCK THE "MOUNTIES" JUST

SO LONG, BUT THEY GET YOU IN THE END. BUT THEY DIDN'T KNOW THAT

THERE WAS A MONTANA COWPUNCHER IN THE RANKS OF THE R. N. W. M. P.

Chapter I

THE RESIGNATION

"Monk Magee is so dog-gone lowdown that he could put on a plug-hat and

walk under a snake," declared Bud Conley seriously, as he turned in the

doorway and looked back at Inspector Grandon of the Royal Northwest

Mounted Police, who was seated at a desk, looking indifferently at a

paper which Bud had just placed before him.

Grandon's eyebrows lifted a trifle, but he did not look at Bud, as he

said crisply, "Perhaps that is true, Conley; still, he is no fool."

"You mean that he's got brains?" asked Bud. "Hell! All Magee's head is

good for is to keep his ears from rubbin' on each other."

Grandon's thin lips twisted slightly. Coney's quaint sayings amused

him at times, although he hated to admit it. Conley's indifference

to discipline, absolute disregard for his superior officers, rasped

Grandon to the quick; and he was not at all sorry that Conley was no

longer a member of the R. N. W. M. P.

"I reckon I can consider m'self fired, can't I?" queried Bud, as he

slowly rolled a cigarette.

"Yes. You are no longer a member of the force, Conley."

"And I never even got m'self drunk like a gentleman," wailed Bud.

"One big shot of wobble-water and I went out and lost m' fly-wheel.

Hell's delight, but that Magee hootch would make a moth-miller lick a

hen-hawk!"

"And there was that complaint from Beaudet," reminded the inspector

softly and meaningly.

Bud whirled quickly and came back to the desk.

"That was a damn lie!" he snapped, as he leaned forward, his gray eyes

boring into the startled face of the officer.

"I'm no longer a policeman, Grandon--remember that. I've handed in m'

resignation, you'll notice. I may only be a cowboy from Montana, as

some of the red-coats have said behind my back, but I've got a mother

some'ers and I used t' have a sister."

The anger faded from Bud's eyes and a wistful expression crossed his

seamed face, as his mind seemed to flash back through time. Then he

shook his head and looked at the inspector.

"Hold your temper!" ordered the inspector coldly. "I am not in the

habit of being----"

"Aw-w-w, hell!" interrupted Bud wearily. "I dunno how I've stood this

as long as I have; danged if I do."

He turned away and walked back to the door, looking at the thumb and

index finger of his right hand, which were badly stained with ink. Bud

had little education, and the writing of his resignation, brief as it

was, had been a man-sized task.

Bud was of medium height, slim-waisted, long-armed. His pugnacious

jaw, tilted nose and mop of unruly hair gave no lie to his ancestry.

He hated discipline, petty details, and his blood inheritance from

a line of Irish ancestors rebelled and his tongue snapped in spite

of punishment. Bud had been a top-hand in cow-land, which meant

ability--plus.

Just now Bud was both mad and muddled. The day before he had been sent

out to try and locate the party or parties who had been selling whisky

to a bunch of Indians.

Liquor was taboo, even to the whites, but the Mounted had never

been able to stop its import. The Indians had secured a large

quantity--large enough to incite them to wondrous deeds--with the

result that a number of them had made a pilgrimage to the Happy Hunting

ground.

The little town of Kingsburg was a sore spot to the Mounted. Here

lived Monk Magee, a big, burly, bull-necked individual, who hated the

Mounted, and was a never-ending source of irritation to them. The

town's close proximity to the border of the United States made it a

useful place for the outlaws of both sides of the boundary. To them it

was but a mythical line, to be crossed at will; a line which gave them

sort of a sanctuary and blocked the efforts of law enforcement.

Magee was proprietor of a hotel--the Magee Rest. No one, or at least

very few people ever put up at his hostelry; but Magee waxed prosperous

and never complained over poor business. The border element came to

Magee's place, and he was usually surrounded by a bunch of questionable

characters. But the Mounted were unable to fasten horse or cattle

stealing or liquor running onto Magee.

The day before his forced resignation Bud had gone to Kingsburg, hoping

for something to happen to break the monotony--and it did. At Magee's

place Bud ran into two punchers from just over the Montana border,

and Bud knew these two men as rustlers. They knew Bud, but did not

recognize him.

[Illustration]

The place was orderly enough, as far as Bud could see, but he was,

as he expressed it, "a little leary of the whole outfit." Magee was

outwardly friendly to Bud, and talked to him about the Indian liquor

selling trouble.

"I sabe how they suspect me," said Magee confidentially, "and mebbe I

don't blame 'em. I've got a little good liquor, Conley--for my friends."

"Thasall right," admitted Bud. "I ain't ridin' yuh, am I, Magee? 'F

yo're sellin' hootch to the reds, you'll get yours sooner or later. The

Mounties always get their man, yuh know."

"Sure, I sabe that, Conley, but just t' show yuh that I ain't

concealin' anythin', I'll ask yuh to have a little drink from my

private stock. Whatcha say?"

"I'll say that she's a long dry spell," said Bud.

Magee went into the rear room of the place and came out with two

glasses of liquor. There was no attempt at concealing anything. The

liquor was very strong and of a peculiar taste, but Bud did not feel

that anything was wrong until Magee's face and form began to separate

into many more Magees; so many that the room seemed densely populated

with Magees.

Then the Magee army and everything else faded out and Bud's senses

with them. When Bud came back to his senses he found himself at

headquarters, his clothes whisky soaked, a bottle of liquor in his

pocket and disgrace staring him in the face.

From the lips of old Angus MacPherson Bud found out that he had been

found on the road, just at the outskirts of Kingsburg, drunk as a fool.

And with him was Marie Beaudet, a young half-breed girl, just as drunk

as he.

He was also informed by MacPherson, who had no sympathy for anybody,

that Joe Burgoyne, who was engaged to Marie Beaudet, had sworn to kill

him on sight--if old Louis Beaudet did not beat him to it. Joe was a

gambling half-breed, with a hawk-like face, a lean, lithe body and

uncanny ability with a knife.

Bud scowled deeply and it seemed to please MacPherson immensely.

"And Bur-r-goyne will do it, too," declared the Scot ominously. "He's a

de'il with a knife. And don't ye over-r-look old Louie and his shotgun."

"Yuh sure can think of a lot of sweet things, you damn old

cockle-burr," groaned Bud.

MacPherson grinned maliciously. "And as for-r-r Miss Nor-r-rah

Clarey----"

MacPherson ducked quickly and Bud's boot-heel hit the wall behind him.

"Leave her name out of it!" snapped Bud. "I don't know a blamed thing

that happened, Mac."

"Ye'll no deny ye were drunk, will ye?"

"On one drink?" snorted Bud.

"It must ha' been a lar-r-ge one, lad." MacPherson shook his gray head

wonderingly. "Mebbe ye were usin' a washtub, eh?"

Bud shook his head and spat dryly. "My tongue is plum corroded, Mac.

What did the inspector say?"

MacPherson shook his head slowly. "What could he say, lad? Ye have

disgraced the for-r-ce; so he says. Don't ye know that the Royal

Northwest Mounted----?"

"Aw shut up!" wailed Bud. "What don't I know about rules and

regulations? Ain't I had 'em fired at my head ever since I dressed

myself up like a Royal chinook salmon and swore to never pull a gun

except in self defense? I didn't ask yuh for a ruling, you long-faced

old leather-knees--I asked yuh what the inspector said."

"I'll not repeat it," declared MacPherson. "He sent McKay out on your

detail and told me to sober ye up long enough for-r-r ye to answer

a few questions. Dr. Clarey was the one that found ye--him and Joe

Burgoyne."

"Yeah?" Bud grimaced and scratched his touseled hair nervously.

"Clarey, eh? What was he doin' up there?"

"A man got half killed in a brawl, so he says. Burgoyne came after Dr.

Clarey, and they found ye maudling drunk, and with ye was the little

Marie, and she was----"

"Aw, shut up," snorted Bud, as he got to his feet. "I'm goin' in and

have it over with. If Joe Burgoyne sticks a knife into me I hope it'll

be in the stummick; I've no use for that part of me."

Bud kicked the door shut behind him and went to face Inspector Grandon;

after which he wrote his resignation. Grandon had said little during

the session. Bud denied everything except taking the drink of liquor,

but the evidence was all against him.

But just now Bud was not worrying about his discharge nor about

disgracing the force; he was thinking about little Norah Clarey. She

was a proud little brown-eyed miss, with raven tresses. Black Irish,

MacPherson called her. And Bud's whole future was built around Norah

Clarey, whether she knew it or not. Now, he knew that she had heard

from her father of what he had done, and, if he had not misjudged her,

she would never speak to him again. All of which caused Bud to have a

sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, along with the rest of

his internal misery. The fact that both Burgoyne and old Louis Beaudet

desired his scalp did not worry Bud in the least.

Old Louis was the proprietor of the store at Eagle Nest, the R. N.

W. M. P. headquarters. There was little more than the store and the

buildings used by the Mounted, but old Louis did a fair business. Mrs.

Beaudet was a Cree squaw, very fat and very indifferent.

Eagle's Nest was too far South for Louie to get any of the fur trade,

but the outlying cattle ranches, prospectors, etc., gave him a fair

trade. But Louie was the type of Northern trader, canny as a Scot, but

caring little beyond his immediate needs.

Marie was a little, black-eyed thing, adored above everything by old

Louie, whose gray beard swept almost to his waist and whose whisper was

almost a roar. He was a typical old French-Canadian, quick to answer,

quick to forgive and with the strength of a grizzly bear.

[Illustration]

Bud could see the front of the store from where he stood on the

headquarters steps. Directly across from him was the barracks building,

and as Bud glanced that way a tall, rangy policeman came out of the

building and crossed toward him. He came in close before he spoke.

"What did the inspector have to say, Conley?"

"I didn't listen much," grinned Bud, "but I got enough to know that he

didn't need me any longer, Henderson."

"And you resigned?"

"Well," drawled Bud, "I didn't want to disappoint him."

"That's too bad," sighed Henderson.

"Don't bawl about it," begged Bud. "'F there's anythin' I hate it's t'

see a policeman cryin'. I reckon I can bear m' burden."

Henderson smiled. He had been Bud's bunkie and liked Bud, in spite

of the fact that Bud laughed at the traditions of the Royal Mounted.

Henderson was heart and soul in the service.

"Going to leave this country, Conley?" he asked.

"I--reckon--so--mebbe."

Henderson glanced toward Beaudet's store and stepped in closer to Bud.

"Keep your eyes open, Conley. Beaudet is half crazy and Burgoyne is as

venomous as a snake. Dr. Clarey has been trying to talk sense into both

of them, but I don't think he has done much good."

"Henderson, do you think I got that girl drunk?"

"I don't want to, Conley."

"Then yuh do," said Bud quickly, "but it don't make no never mind."

He turned, as though to walk away from Henderson, but stopped. Two

horses were coming down the street; two saddled horses, without riders,

and one of the saddles had turned and was under the horse's belly,

greatly impeding its progress.

"That is McKay's horse--that roan!" exclaimed Henderson, naming the

trooper who had replaced Bud. "The other belongs to Cree George,

McKay's packer. I wonder what has gone wrong."

They caught the horses and led them up to the front of the

headquarters. Bud removed the saddles, while Henderson reported it to

Grandon. An examination showed that neither horse had been injured.

"Broke loose and came back," was Grandon's comment.

"Which don't fit the case at all," declared Bud. "McKay always uses a

tie-rope and so does the Injun."

Grandon looked curiously at Bud. "Are tie-ropes unbreakable?" he asked,

a trifle vexed.

"No," Bud shook his head slowly, "but it ain't noways reasonable t'

suppose that both of them horses would break loose in such a way as t'

leave their ropes; and a tie-rope don't usually break in the neck-loop.

Ain't neither horse got a rope nor a rope-burn. Nawsir, them two broncs

were untied."

"What do you think, Henderson?" asked Grandon.

"I think that Conley is right, sir."

"Possibly. You will go at once to Kingsburg and try to get in

communication with McKay, Henderson."

Henderson snapped a salute, whirled on his heel and started for the

stables. Bud turned his back on Grandon and began rolling a cigarette.

"Do yuh know what I think?" asked Bud slowly.

Grandon seemed to have little interest in what Bud thought, and did not

reply.

"I think that Kingsburg is a hell of a place to send one officer,

Grandon."

"Yes?" Grandon's voice held a trifle of a sneer, "but McKay does not

drink."

"Then he won't get off as cheaply as I did."

"What do you mean, Conley?"

"I mean that there's somethin' queer about that danged place. A week

ago I seen somethin' that I never reported to you, Grandon. I was

comin' down past there at night and I looked it over from that knoll

back of town. I seen at least twenty men go into Magee's place.

"It kinda struck me as bein' queer; so I rode down and went in. I found

Magee and one Injun in there. Magee offered me a drink of hootch, but

I didn't take it. There was at least twenty men went in there, and I

found two."

"I can hardly credit that statement, Conley."

"Hell, you ain't got nothin' on me," grinned Bud.

"You knew that Magee had a stock of liquor?"

"So did you," retorted Bud. "You know damn well that Magee is

responsible for most all of the liquor that comes into this district,

but you can't nail him with it. You send one man in there to buck that

whole bunch. Don't you know that every smuggler, rustler, bootlegger is

on Magee's side? What can one man do?

[Illustration]

"You swell out your chest and imagine that the R. N. W. M. P. is all

powerful, don'tcha? They ain't. A red coat ain't got a Chinaman's

chance in Kingsburg. I know Magee and his outfit. He told me that I was

wastin' m' time tryin' t' put the deadwood on him, and that, if I'd

quit the force, he'd show me how to make more money than the force

ever paid anybody."

Grandon's eyes fairly snapped with anger, but he knew down deep in his

heart that Bud was right. Their efforts against Magee had been dismal

failures, but he did hate to be told in such plain language. Without a

word he turned and went back into the house.

"I reckon his hide ain't as thick as I thought it was," mused Bud. "And

I didn't say 'sir' to him once."

He stepped off the porch and headed straight for Beaudet's store. Bud

was not the kind that waited for trouble to come to him. His mind was

a total blank as to what he had done after taking that one drink,

but he felt sure that he had nothing to do with the plight of little

Marie Beaudet. He knew that it had been a frame-up, but just why they

had included the half-breed girl in it he had no idea. Magee was

responsible for the doping, and Bud felt sure that Magee had done it to

disgrace him with the Mounted and get him out of the way.

Louis Beaudet and Dr. Clarey were standing near the center of the

room, talking softly, while Joe Burgoyne sat on a counter beyond them,

staring at the floor. Bud stopped near old Louis, who looked up at him.

"You?" said Louie hoarsely. "You come here--you?"

He made a move, as though to reach for Bud, but the doctor grasped him

by the arm.

"Softly, me old friend," he begged.

Came the sudden creak of the rough counter and Joe Burgoyne, the

half-breed, flung himself straight at Bud, a knife in his hand.

Burgoyne was only about ten feet away, and his spring was like that of

a panther, but Bud was not caught napping.

[Illustration]

Swiftly he side-stepped just in time to avoid Joe's rush, and as Joe

flashed past him, Bud hooked him across the ankles with his foot,

sending the half-breed spinning against the counter across the room.

The fight was all taken out of Joe. His long-bladed knife had flipped

out of his hand and skidded under the counter--and Joe was not a

bare-handed fighter. He swore softly and felt of his face, which had

come into rasping contact with the rough counter.

"If I didn't feel sorry for yuh, I'd tie yuh in a knot and leave yuh to

starve," declared Bud.

"Sorry?" Old Louie started forward. "You sorry?"

"Yeah," nodded Bud.

"W'at you sorry for, policeman?"

"I ain't no policeman now," said Bud. "I'm fired."

It took Louie several moments to digest this bit of information.

"So? Yo' not be de policeman now, eh? Not'ing to keep me from kill you

now, eh?" he asked finally.

"Nobody but me. Mebbe I'll object."

Bud was in just the right mood to battle everyone in Eagle's Nest. Joe

got up slowly, holding to the counter, while Dr. Clarey still clung to

Louie's arm, talking soothingly.

Someone was coming into the store, and Bud turned to see Norah Clarey.

She stopped and looked at Bud, and her dark eyes were filled with pain.

She turned and looked at Joe. He tried to smile, but it was more of a

smirk. Then she ignored Bud and spoke directly to Louie and her father.

"I have heard of the swift justice of the North, but it seems to have

been only idle talk."

"W'at you mean?" asked Louie.

"You would let this man stay here, after what he has done?"

"He shall not stay," declared Joe firmly.

"You better run along and find your knife, Breed," said Bud.

"Breed!" exploded Joe. "You'll pay for----"

Bud whirled and started toward Joe, who got swiftly out of the way by

vaulting the counter.

"I say he shall not stay!" roared old Louie.

"Aw, don't roar about it!" snapped Bud. "Ain't a feller got any right

to a defense? The Mounted kicked me out without any argument. But I

don't mind. The only time a king means anythin' to me is in a poker

game.

"I expect to leave this place. There ain't nothin' for me here--now,"

Bud's voice was pitched lower. "But I'll be damned if anybody is goin'

to run me out. Nobody asks me if I done this."

Norah started to speak, but the doctor motioned her to silence. Clarey

was a sour-faced old Irish doctor, very strong in his likes and

dislikes, but with a heart of gold that he tried to conceal from the

world.

"Conley, my lad," he said, trying to force his voice to be gruff,

"perhaps we've been a bit too quick, but the evidence is against ye; so

heavily against ye that we've given no thought to your defense. Have ye

any?"

Bud shook his head and grinned at the doctor.

"Nope. I don't know a danged thing about it. What is there against me,

except that I was found with the little girl?"

Louie Beaudet started forward, but the doctor blocked him again.

"Marie see you!" exploded Louie angrily.

"She seen me?" Bud scratched his head wonderingly.

"She don't know what happened," explained the doctor. "She says she

was coming from my cabin. It was a bit after dark. A man grasped

her and something struck her on the head. She has a faint memory of

someone giving her a drink of strong liquor, and in an interval of

half-consciousness she saw the scarlet jacket of the Mounted."

"And h'every man of de force be here at de pos', except you!" exclaimed

Louie, shaking with anger. "You are de man!"

"And we were found together this morning, eh?"

"Pierre Ravalli was bad cut in a fight," said Joe, "and I'm come here

for de doctor. When we go back we find you beside de road."

[Illustration]

Dr. Clarey nodded sadly. "That is true."

"Did Ravalli die?" asked Bud.

"He's not hurt so bad," said Joe quickly. "I leave de doctor with you,

while I go after wagon to bring you back, and I find that Pierre is

much better."

"Was Marie hurt much?" asked Bud.

"Not badly," replied the doctor. "The blow on her head caused a bad

swelling, but she is very ill today from the shock."

For several moments no one spoke, and then the doctor said softly, "And

she was to marry Joe Burgoyne next week."

Bud turned and looked at Joe, who had come back between the counters

and was leaning an elbow on a pile of colored blankets.

"And now he won't marry her, eh?" queried Bud.

Joe's eyes flashed to Louie Beaudet, and then he looked away. It

was evident that Joe was not going to keep his part of the marriage

compact. Old Louie bowed his head and turned toward the rear of the

room. The disgrace of it was too much for the old man to face them now.

Joe turned away, too, as though to leave the store, but Bud caught him

by the shoulder and whirled him around.

"You won't marry her, eh?" questioned Bud. "Your honor is so damn

clean that she ain't good enough for you now. Listen to me, you breed

coyote." Bud grasped Joe by both shoulders and shoved him back against

the counter. "It was no fault of hers that this thing happened. I don't

know her very well, and you know as well as I do that I never harmed

her. But by God, if you don't marry her, I will!"

Joe clawed backward for support, as Bud shook him violently.

"You heard what I said, didn't yuh?" asked Bud.

Joe shook himself together and tried to edge away, but Bud blocked him.

"Well," Joe shrugged his shoulders, "you might ask her; mebbe she be

glad to take you--now."

The sneering words were hardly out of Joe's mouth before Bud smashed

him full in the face. It was a punch with every ounce of Bud's muscled

body behind it, and Joe went down backward, slithering his shoulders

against the counter as he fell.

For a moment it seemed that Bud was going to follow up the blow, but

the doctor sprang in front of him. The blow had landed a trifle too

high for a complete knockout, but Joe's face was a sight to behold as

he got to his feet. For a moment he steadied himself and then staggered

straight out of the door.

"I'm sorry you did that, Conley," said the doctor.

"Y'betcha!" grunted Bud. "I should have used an ax."

"It does not help matters," sighed the doctor sadly. "It will not help

Marie Beaudet, and will only make you an enemy of Joe Burgoyne."

Norah had moved in beside old Louie and now they turned and went out

through the door that led to the Beaudet living quarters. Bud looked

after Norah, but she did not turn her head.

"You will leave here soon?" questioned the doctor.

"Yeah," nodded Bud. "I reckon I'll throw in with the bunch at

Kingsburg. I'm just ornery enough to make good up there with that

layout. I'm kinda curious t' know more about the kind of hootch Magee

sells. She sure makes a feller throw a peculiar fit."

Bud turned and walked out of the door. The sun had just gone down and

it would soon be dark. A big bunch of thunder-clouds were piling up in

the east, which presaged a storm within the hour.

Bud sauntered down to the barracks and went to his room. His old

bed-roll was there, and wrapped inside it was the outfit he had worn

into the country. In a few moments he had divested himself of his

soiled uniform and dressed in his old cowboy garb.

His battered old sombrero felt more comfortable than the stiff-brim

service hat, and he fairly luxuriated in the feel of his old blue shirt

and colorless mackinaw coat. He wrote a note to Henderson and pinned it

on the sleeve of his discarded uniform coat. Then he buckled on his own

belt and gun, took his slicker and bed-roll under his arm and started

for the stables. He was all cowboy once more.

Bud owned his own horse and no one contested his right to saddle up and

ride away. It was already dark and behind him came the faint muttering

of thunder; so he put on his slicker, drew his sombrero tighter on his

head and mentally dared the storm to do its worst. About a mile out

of town he left the road and took an old pack-trail, which led in a

roundabout way to Kingsburg.