After all, nothing was accomplished. The marshal was not in his office, but absent somewhere in the mountains. Plutina would not risk giving information to any other than the officer himself, whom she knew, and respected. Disconsolate, she abandoned the attempt for the time being, and set out to get a bag of wheat flour from the mill close by, on the other side of Roaring River.

As Plutina, with the bag of flour on shoulder, was making her way back from the mill, across the big sycamore trunk that serves as a foot bridge, a horse splashed into the ford alongside. The girl looked up, to see the very man she sought. Marshal Stone called a cheery greeting, the while his horse dropped its head to drink.

"Howdy, Plutina?"

"Howdy, Mr. Stone," she answered. Her free hand went again to the talisman in her bosom. Surely, its charm was potent!

"All's well as common, at home?" Stone continued. His critical eyes delighted in the unconscious grace of the girl, as she stood poised above the brawling stream, serene in her physical perfection; and above the delicately modeled symmetry of form was the loveliness of the face, beautiful as a flower, yet strong, with the shining eyes and the red lips, now parted in eagerness. The marshal wondered a little at that eagerness. He wondered still more at her hurried speech after one quick glance to make sure that none could overhear:

"I mustn't be seed talkin' to ye, but I got somethin' to say 'll he'p ye arn yer pay. Kin ye meet me in an hour by the sun, at the ole gate on the east end o' Wolf Rock?"

The marshal's answer wasted no words:

"Go on, gal—I'll be there."

Wolf Rock, a huge, jutting mass of barren cliff, though tiny beside the bulk of Stone Mountain, which overshadows it, lies between Garden Creek and Thunder Branch, a little to the north of where these streams flow into Roaring River. Its situation, nearly midway between the mill and the Siddon Cabin, made it a convenient point for the meeting between Plutina and the officer. Its loneliness lessened the element of danger. Both were prompt to the rendezvous. Well under the hour, man and girl were standing together within a bower of newly blossoming rhododendrons. Above them, the naked rock bent sharply, its granite surface glistening in the hot noonday sun. They had withdrawn some score of yards from the old wooden gate that barred the lane here, lest a chance passer-by see them together. Plutina opened her mind without hesitation. The decision once made, she had no thought of drawing back.

"I 'low I kin trust ye, Mister Stone," she said simply, and the sincerity of the lustrous eyes as they met his confirmed her words. "Afore you-all's time in the revenue service, raiders done kilt my daddy. I kain't never fergive them men, but they's out o' the service now, er I wouldn't have come to ye. Gran'pap says they's a better lot o' revenuers now 'n what used to be an' he says as how Marshal Stone don't do no dirt. Thet's why I'm a-trusting ye, so's ye kin kotch the pizen-meanest white man a-makin' likker in the hull Stone Mountain country—him an' his gang an' his still."

The marshal's eyes sparkled.

"I reckon you're talking about Dan Hodges," he interjected.

Plutina nodded her head in somber acquiescence.



"Then you needn't have any scruples about giving information," Stone continued, urgently. "He and his gang are a menace to the peace of the settlement. I'll keep you out of it, of course, to save you embarrassment."

"Ye'd better," Plutina retorted, "to save my life. I don't know's I mind bein' embarrassed so much, but I don't feel called to die yit."

"No, no; there won't be anything like that," the marshal exclaimed, much disconcerted. "I'll see no trouble comes to you. Nobody'll know your part."

"'Cept me!" was the bitter objection. "If 'twas anybody but that ornery galoot, I wouldn't say a word. Ye know that."

"I know," Stone admitted, placatingly.

In his desire to change her mood, he blundered on:

"And there's the reward for getting the 'copper'—twenty dollars for you Plutina. If we get Hodges, I'll give you another fifty out of my own pocket. That'll buy you a nice new dress or two, and a hat, and some silk stockings for those pretty legs of yours."

Plutina flared. The red glowed hot in her cheeks, and the big eyes flashed. The mellow voice deepened to a note of new dignity, despite her anger.

"I hain't come hyar to gas 'bout rewards, an' money outten yer pocket, Mister Stone, or 'bout my clothes an' sech. I'm an engaged woman. When I wants to cover my legs with stockin's Zeke Higgins' money'll do the payin', an' he won't need no he'p from no damned revenuer."

Stone, realizing too late the error in his diplomacy, made what haste he could to retrieve it. His smile was genial as he spoke. He seemed quite unabashed, just heartily sympathetic, and his manner calmed the girl's irritation almost at once.

"Oh, you little mountain hornet! Well, you are telling me news now. And it's the kind to make any old bachelor like me weep for envy. Lucky boy, Zeke! I guess he knows it, too, for he's got eyes in his head. About the money—why, you've a right to it. If Dan Hodges and his gang ain't rounded up quick, they'll be killing some good citizen—like me, perhaps."

Plutina had recovered her poise, but she spoke no less firmly:

"No, suh, I won't tech the money. I kin show ye how to kotch the hull gang, but not fer pay, an not fer love o' no revenuer, neither. Hit's jest fer the good o' this country hyarbout. Dan Hodges has done sot b'ar-traps to kotch you-all. An' anybody might walk plumb into 'em, but not if I kin he'p hit."

Forthwith, she made the situation clear to her eager listener.

"Kin you-all meet me, an hour by the sun in the mornin', on the trail to Cherry Lane post-office jest beyond the Widder Higgins' clearin'? I'll take ye to the place, whar ye kin see the still, an' the traps."

"I'll have to move lively," the marshal answered, with a somewhat rueful laugh. "Twenty miles' ride to North Wilkesboro', and back. But I'll do it, of course. I wouldn't miss it for a good deal. I'll have my men waiting at Trap Hill. If things shape right, I'll make the raid to-morrow night."



CHAPTER VIII

Marshal John Stone was a mountaineer of the better sort, who had the respect and admiration of the law-abiding citizens in his district, and the hate of the evil-doers. He stood full six feet in his socks, and he was broad and muscled in proportion. His gray eyes were of the sort to harden to steel against an enemy, to soften wonderfully for a friend. The mouth, half-hidden by the thick mustache, was very firm, yet prone to smiles. To an excellent intelligence had been added a fair amount of education. Since he respected both himself and his work, and had developed a veritable passion for the capture of malefactors, he was more than usually successful. His zeal, tempered with discretion, had won the appreciative attention of official superiors. There could be no doubt that promotion would shortly remove him to a higher plane of service. The fact would have been most agreeable to Stone, but for two things. He desired beyond all else, before going from the mountains, to capture Dan Hodges, who had so persistently flouted the law, and himself, its representative; the second unsatisfied ambition was to come on the long-lost Burns' still.

The Scottish poet's poverty was almost equal to his genius. On that account, Robert Burns was glad to secure the stipend of fifty pounds a year to which he became entitled on his appointment as exciseman in 1788. It may be that his convivial habits made his official position particularly acceptable, since doubtless his perquisites included the keeping of his own jug filled. And there were moonshiners among the Scottish hills in those days, as perhaps there are to-day. On occasion, the poet made a gift of a captured still to some discreet friend. One recipient emigrated to America, and bore into the wilderness that has become North Carolina the kettle and cap of copper on which Burns had graven his name, and the date, 1790. Afterward, as the years passed, the still knew many owners, mostly unlawful. It won fame, and this saved it from the junk-heap of its fellows, when seized by the Federal officers. Three times, it was even placed on public exhibition. As many, it was stolen by moonshiners. For years now, it had remained in secret. Marshal Stone yearned to recapture the Burns still. There was no reason whatsoever for believing it to be in the possession of Hodges, yet it might as easily be with that desperado as with another. There was at least the possibility. The marshal, as he rode north before the dawn next morning, felt a new kindling of hope. It seemed to him almost certain that the opportunity was at hand to satisfy one ambition at least by putting Hodges behind the bars. For the other, it was on the lap of the gods.

The officer was at pains to use every precaution to avoid being observed while in company with the girl, whom he duly met at the appointed place while the sun was yet low on the eastern horizon. The two made their way with what quiet they could through devious paths to Luffman's Branch. The dew lay heavy on the laurel leaves of the thickets, and the breeze was perfumed with the penetrant fragrance of many blossoms. The day was thrilling with the matins of the birds. The balsamic air was a wine of life. The rugged mountain peaks seemed to stand as an impregnable barrier against the confusions and evils of the larger world. But the man and the girl recked nought of these things as they went forward, with cautious steps and watchful eyes. They knew that the tranquil scene masked wickedness close by them, which would not hesitate to destroy. The discovery of the marshal in that vicinity would mean for him the bullet of an assassin from out the screen of leaves, and the same fate—or worse—for his companion. The corpses would be lost in the Devil's Cauldron. Men would whisper grim surmises, and whisper low lest the like come upon them. And that would be all.

They reached the cliff top overlooking the little canon, and Plutina pointed out the location of the traps on the strip of dry ground below, and the huddles of brush that disguised the buildings of the still. Then, the girl went her way. She had done her part. The man remained to study the scene above for hours through his glasses, and to map out the night's campaign into the enemy's country.

A delicate moonlight fell over the mountains, when, in the evening, Stone led his men from the rendezvous at Trap Hill. The six were heavily armed and well mounted. Their course at the outset led them along the Elkin road to Joines' store, where they swung into the trail over which Zeke and Plutina had walked the day of their parting. The cavalcade rode swiftly. There was no conversation; only the pounding of hoofs and the jangling of accoutrements. When, at last, they reached the edge of the Widow Higgins' clearing, they turned sharply to the eastward, following the path toward the Cherry Lane post-office. Presently, at a low word of command from the leader, they halted and dismounted. The horses were left to the care of one man in a near-by thicket, and the remainder of the party continued the advance on foot.

The marshal, during his watch on the still that day, had planned his attack in every detail. He hoped to make his capture of the gang without unnecessary casualties, for in this particular he had achieved an enviable record, on which he prided himself. At first, he had thought of ascending along the course of Luffman's Branch, after springing the traps, but had given over the plan as one offering more chance of the raiders being discovered prematurely. Instead, he had decided on taking his men up the mountainside by a round-about route, likely to be free from watchers. His men were already instructed in every point, so now they followed him rapidly and almost noiselessly, as he forced his way through the thick growths of the wooded slopes. The darkness added to the difficulties of the progress, but the posse were inured to hardships, and went onward and upward resolutely. Despite the necessities of the detour, they came surprisingly soon to a height from which they looked across a small ravine to the level space where the still perched by the stream. A few whispered words from the leader, and the company crept with increased care across the ravine. From the ridge beyond, three of the men passed forward to make ambush—one above, and one below, and one on the far side of the still. Stone and a single companion remained, hiding behind the clumps of rhododendrons.

It was with huge satisfaction that the marshal recognized Hodges himself, plainly revealed by the firelight. The "kettle" was running at full blast. The seasoned hickory logs, in the rough stone furnace beneath the kettle, were burning fiercely, and the blue and gold of their flames lighted all the scene into vivid relief against the background of shadows. Stone, even at his distance, could see distinctly the tiny stream of colorless mountain-corn whiskey, as it flowed out from the worm into the keg placed to receive it. The leader of the gang was seated at ease on a stool just outside the brush enclosure that masked the buildings. The villain was evidently in a mood of contentment, untainted by remorse over the havoc his traps might wreak on any passing through the gorge below. Rather, doubtless, the memory of those sinister sentinels gave him a sense of safety, on which his serenity was founded. In his lap was a banjo which he thrummed vigorously, with rhythmic precision, if no greater musical art, and head and body and feet, all gave emphasis to the movement. At intervals, his raucous voice rumbled a snatch of song. It was evident that the moonshiner was mellow from draughts of his own potent product.

Others of the gang were busied here and there, bulking grotesquely as they moved about the fire, seeming disheveled demons of the pit. Like some master imp torturing a pigmy over the flames, old Ben York was kneeling close beside the blaze, holding to the coals a hickory stick, which served as spit for the roasting of a squirrel. The brilliance shone full on the frowsy gray whiskers, and, above them, the blinking, rheumy eyes, so intent on the proper browning of the game. None of the outlaws had a weapon in his grasp—a fact noted with satisfaction by the chief of the raiders, who knew that these men would not scruple against bloodshed to escape arrest. There were arms at hand, of course; Hodges' rifle was visible, leaning against a ground pine within his reach. But Stone hoped that the surprise would be such that the gang could not avail themselves of their weapons.

Hodges had just completed a strident rendering of "Cripple Crick," and had thumped out the opening bars of "Short'nin' Bread," when the marshal gave the signal for attack—a single flash of his electric torch. In the same second, the raiders' rifles crashed out. The big bullets struck true to aim in the ground of the open place before the fire. A shower of dirt and pebbles spat back viciously. Some of the flying fragments struck the men, terrifying them with the thought of bullet wounds. Hodges, as the reports sounded, felt the bruise of stones on his bare legs, and shrieked in panic fear. His instinctive recoil carried him over backward, from the stool to the ground. The banjo jangled discordant triumph over his fall. When, dazed by the suddenness of it all, he would have struggled up, he found himself fast in the clutches of two raiders, who locked manacles on his wrists. Stone grunted joyously as he surveyed the captive. The others of the gang, except Ben York, had contrived to slip away into the laurel, whither it would avail nothing to follow them, save useless risk of being killed from ambush. But the marshal cared little for the escape of the lesser malefactors. He had succeeded in taking prisoner the most notorious criminal of the mountains.

Ben York had failed to effect his usual flight, because of being at a disadvantage on his knees. Before he could scramble up for a plunge into the thickets the enemy was upon him. Yet, even in this moment of shock, the old scoundrel's cunning sought and found a ruse. He stood swaying for seconds, and then tumbled limply headlong to the ground, in a drunkard's fall, familiar to his muscles by experience through three-score years. So he lay inert, seemingly sodden from the kettle's brew. His captors, if resolved to hold him prisoner, would be forced to the arduous task of carrying him through the dark, down the rough slopes. It would be strange, he mused complacently, if in the course of the journey, their vigilance did not relax a little. And a very little would suffice him! Then, though to all appearance in a drunken stupor, he sighed. He was unhappily aware that the revenue men would not be gentle in their efforts to arouse him to consciousness. Whether they believed him shamming or not, they would use no doubtful measures. But, whatever might come, he must endure it for the sake of escape.



The raiders realized the need of haste, for they must be done with their work here, and down the steeps of the mountain into the open road, ere the fugitives should have time to arm themselves, and waylay the posse from the thickets. So, with due watchfulness of the two prisoners, the men set about that task of destruction which their duty required. The fermenters, huge tubs holding the mixture of meal, malt and water making ready for the still, received first attention. Since York had fallen before these, the men rolled him roughly to one side, without arousing him to any sign of consciousness. Stone knew the man to be shamming, since there had been no show of even incipient drunkenness before the moment of the raid. He resolved to try a test at least, for he was alert to the hindrance the limp form would prove in the descent of the mountain. He thrust the body forward with his foot, close to one of the great "stands" of the mixture, and bade an appreciative assistant apply the ax to the slippery-elm hoops that bound the staves. As the bands fell and the great volume of liquid gushed forth, the raiders leaped aside from the flood. But York never stirred. The down-rushing tide fell fairly on him, engulfed him. He made no movement, no outcry. Even Stone himself was led to a half-remorseful wonder whether he had been deceived concerning the fellow's state. Then, after a few seconds, the bald head rose, glistening from the pool of the "beer." The thin wisps of gray hair hung in dank strings; the jungle of beard seemed strangely thin; there was something curiously unlike Ben York in the lineaments. The marshal guessed that the metamorphosis was wrought by the swirling mess, which had scrubbed the weazened face almost clean for the first time in the memory of living man. As the dilapidated head emerged, it showed the grotesque caricature of a Neptune, whose element was not the waters of ocean, but the shattered hogsheads of "beer." Even now, however, Ben clung to his role. Once his face was clear, he continued to sit placidly, though the surface of the viscous pool was at his neck. For better effect, he blinked vacuously, and gurgled. Perhaps, memory of a bath in infancy inspired him. He had had none since. He beat his scrawny hands in the "beer," and cackled. It was admirable art, but wasted.

The eight fermenters were broken and emptied, the whiskey stores, both "singlin's" and "doublin's," were poured out on the ground, which drank them as thirstily as did ever law-scorning "boomer." Then, the raiders turned to the chief spoils, kettle, cap and worm. Stone and his men took the copper worm from the cooling barrel, removed the cap, drew the fire from the furnace, and finally pulled down the kettle. In the varied excitement of the night, the marshal had almost forgotten his second great ambition, in the accomplishment of his first. Almost, not quite. Now, the memory of it jumped within him. He thrust the cap where the glow of the fire would light it clearly, dropped to his knees, and peered closely. His stern face relaxed abruptly to joyousness.

"By the Lord, boys," he shouted, "it's the Bobbie Burns' still!"

Nevertheless, Stone wasted no time in exultation. He merely ordered his men to carry the copper utensils along, instead of destroying them on the spot. Then, he addressed Ben York, who grinned idiotically from toothless gums, where he crouched in the diminishing puddle. The marshal's voice rasped.

"You're going with us, Ben. It's for you to say how. If we have to, we'll carry you all the way. We'll snake you down the mountains without being too almighty careful of that rum-tanned hide of yours, and then we'll sling you across the roughest-gaited horse we've got—face down across the saddle and roped snug. That's the way you'll do twenty-odd miles, Ben, if we have to tote you down a single rod. Make up your mind—now! It'll be too late to change it, in a minute. You're plumb sober, and I know it. Get up, you old fox!"

And Ben York, shivering in his sticky, drenched rags, recognized the inevitable, and scrambled to his feet, snarling curses.

"Hit was thet-thar damned gal!" he mumbled venomously. But none heard.



CHAPTER IX

It is a far cry from the savagery of the illicit mountain still to that consummate luxury of civilization, an ocean-going steam yacht. Yet, in actual space, the distance between these two extremes was not great. The Josephine, all in snowy white, save for the gleam of polished brass-work, and flying the pennant of the New York Yacht Club, glided forth from Norfolk Harbor in serene magnificence on the same day that The Bonita chugged fussily over the same course. The yacht was setting out on the second stage of her leisurely pleasure voyage to Bermuda. The skipper had been instructed to follow the coast southward as far as Frying Pan Shoals, for the sake of rounding Hatteras. Afterward, since the weather grew menacing, the craft continued down the coast to Cape Lookout, where anchor was dropped in the Harbor of Refuge.

The island that lies there is a long, narrow, barren strip of sand, dotted thickly with dunes. Only a coarse marsh grass grows, with dwarfed pines and cedars. In this bleak spot live and thrive droves of wild ponies, of uncertain ancestry. It was these creatures that just now held the attention of two persons on the yacht.

Under the awning in the stern, two girls were chatting as they dawdled over their morning chocolate. The younger and prettier of these was Josephine Blaise, the motherless daughter of the yacht-owner; the other was Florence Marlow, her most intimate friend.

"Dad told me I could have the runabout ashore," Josephine was saying, with a sudden access of animation. "We'll go along the beach, as long as the going's good, or till we scare up the ponies."

"I do hope we'll see them digging holes in the sand, so as to get fresh water," Florence exclaimed.

But Josephine was quick to dissent:

"They don't dig for water," she explained, with a superior air. "They dig the holes in the beach when the tides out, and then the tide comes in and fills the holes, of course. When it ebbs, the ponies go around and pick out the fish, and eat them."

Florence stared disbelievingly.

"Oh, what a whopper!" she cried.

"Captain Hawks told me himself," Josephine asserted, with confidence. "He knows all about them—he's seen them wild on the island and tame on the mainland."

"Same ones, probably!" was the tart retort. "I thought the doctor lied ably, but he's truth itself compared with that hairy skipper of yours."

Josephine tossed her head.

"We'll run 'em down and observe their habits, scientifically, and convince you."

A glance shoreward showed the car awaiting them. As they descended the ladder to the launch, a yelp sounded from the deck, and a bull-terrier came charging after. Florence regarded the dog without any evidence of pleasure.

"Does the pest go, too?" she asked, resignedly.

Josephine pulled the terrier's ears fondly, as it cuddled close against her skirt.

"Chubbie deserves an outing after the bump he got from that horrid man yesterday," she said.

The girls exchanged glances, and laughed over some secret joke. When, presently, they were seated together in the runaabout, with Josephine at the wheel, the bull-terrier squatted in dignity on the small back seat. The level sand formed a perfect roadway, and the car darted smoothly and swiftly between the twin barren spaces of land and sea. As they swept forward, the girls watched alertly for a glimpse of the ponies among the dunes, but there was nowhere any sign of a living thing, save the few hurrying gulls. They had gone perhaps twenty miles, and were beginning to fear disappointment, when, without warning, a drove of the horses came galloping over the crest of a little rise, a half-mile beyond. As the car ran forward, along the ribbon of sand below the higher ground, the ponies suddenly perceived it, and halted with the precision of a troop of cavalry. Near at hand, now, the girls could note details, and both observed with interest the leader, which stood a little in advance of his troop, at the end near the approaching machine. He was a handsome creature, with lines as suavely strong as an Arabian's. He stood with head held high, tail streaming, a fore-hoof pawing challengingly at the sand. Only the thick, shaggy bay coat showed the barbarian, rather than the thoroughbred. The mares, a score of them in one orderly rank behind him, were crowding and lashing out nervously, as they watched the strange monster racing so fast on the ocean's edge. Some of them nickered curiously. But the stallion rested silent, until the automobile halted, hardly fifty yards away. Then he tossed his head proudly, and blared a great trumpet-note of defiance. Josephine instinctively answered with the horn. The mechanical cry broke harshly, swelled and wailed. The eerie response terrified the mares; it perplexed and alarmed their lord. But he showed no dismay. For a moment still, he remained motionless. His noisy challenge rang forth once again. Since the invader on the sands below kept silence, nor made any movement toward attack, the leader seemed to feel that his prestige was safe enough; that prudence were now the better part. He sounded a low call, and set off at a gallop along the ridge top. The rank of mares pounded obediently at his heels.

"Oh, after them, Josie!" Florence cried.

In a moment, the car shot forward. The horn clamored again. The fleeing horses looked back, then leaped to new speed before the monster that threatened them with unknown terrors. As the car increased its pace, the ponies strove the harder. Their strides lengthened, quickened. The stunted marsh grass beat on the low bellies. Despite their desperate striving, the runabout drew closer and closer, reached abreast of them. The excitement of the chase was in the sparkling eyes of the girls. The dog, scrambling up and falling in its seat, yelped madly. Here, the beach broadened to a sharper ascent of the ridge. Josephine shifted the wheel. The car swung in a wide curve and drove straight toward the panic-stricken troop, as if it would soar up to them. Fear took pride's place in the leader's heart. He sounded a command. The flying drove veered, vanished from the ridge top. The muffled thudding of hoofs came faintly for a minute against the sea wind. Then, as the car came to a standstill, the girls listened, but heard no sound.

"It was bully fun!" Josephine said. "I'm sorry it's over."

"After that run, they may be thirsty enough to dig for water," Florence suggested, with a laugh. "Let's climb up, and take a look round from the ridge."

But a glance from this point of advantage made it clear that the peculiarities of the ponies in drinking or fishing were not to be explained to-day. They were visible still, to be sure, but a mile off, and the rapidity with which the moving mass diminished to the eye was proof that they were still in panic.

"We might as well get back to the yacht," was Josephine's rueful comment. "There's not another single thing to see, now they're gone." She ran her keen gaze over the dreary waste of the island with a little shiver of distaste. Then her glance roved the undulant expanse of sea. She uttered a sharp ejaculation of surprise.

"There is something, after all," she called out, excitedly. "See—over there!"

Florence looked in the direction marked by the pointing finger.

"It's a canoe," she hazarded, as her eyes fell on the object that bobbed lightly in the surf, two hundred yards from the shore. "I can see the man in it. He's lying down. Funny!"

But Josephine, wiser from much experience on shipboard, now saw clearly, and the sight thrilled.

"It's a life-raft," she declared, with a tremor in her voice; "and there's a man on it. It's a—real—castaway. Come!"

With that, she set off running down the steep slope of the ridge toward the sea. Behind her came Florence, startled and alarmed. The dog barked exultantly once, then leaped ahead, only to return and circle the slower playfellows joyfully. They came to the water's edge, and halted, perforce. Josephine saw the raft, as it rode on a breaking wave. It was perceptibly nearer. She dared hope it might be brought within reach. With deft motions, the flannel skirt was tucked within her belt, leaving her legs free. Florence, somewhat reluctantly, made the like adjustment. The bull-terrier, disheartened by this immobility, sat on its haunches, and regarded the two doubtfully, perhaps prudishly disapproving. From time to time the raft showed for a few seconds; only to vanish again behind the screen of spume. But it advanced shoreward, steadily. The body of the man was distinct—prone, motionless. The girls watched and waited in palpitant eagerness. The dog, sensing the tension of the moment, began to hasten to and fro, snuffing and whining. Suddenly, the two cried out in the same moment. They saw the raft floating fast and smoothly toward them on the crest of a breaker. They dashed forward, knee-deep, to meet the charge. The huge mass of the wave pounded upon them, almost swept them from their feet. The angry waters boiled about them. It was up to their waists now. The flying spray lashed their faces and blinded them. When, at last, their vision cleared, the raft had vanished. They caught sight of it again, presently. It was floating from them, already fifty yards distant.

Nevertheless, the girls, though discouraged, did not give over their hope of rescue. Not even when another wave thrust the raft fairly upon them, so that their hands clutched the tubes, then tore it ruthlessly from their puny grasp, and flung it afar. The dog, accustomed to sporting in the surf with its mistress, rushed to seize this flotsam, but the powerful jaws could find no hold. As the dog approached, swimming, Josephine put her hand to its collar, and so supported it while they waited anxiously for the raft's return.

It came more quickly than before. It was, indeed, as if fate finally relented, for the raft was borne this time on a smaller wave, almost with gentleness, as it seemed. Yet, the gentleness of appearance was only mockery. When the two girls laid hands on it with all their strength it swerved violently, wrested itself from their clutch. Josephine cried out in despair. She saw the dog, released by her effort, plunging forward. A rope dragged in the raft's wake, a remnant of the lashings. The dog lunged viciously, and its jaws locked on the rope. Immediately, then, the bull-terrier began swimming toward the shore. There was no progress. But the going of the raft was momentarily stayed. Josephine saw the opportunity and shrieked to Florence. The two sprang, and caught the raft again. It rested passively in the grasp of the three. The dog continued swimming, its face set resolutely shoreward. The girls, up to their breasts in water, stepped forward, tugging lustily. The three advanced slowly. The raft moved with them.

It was a struggle that taxed the strength of each to the uttermost. Those three puny creatures fighting against the might of the ocean for the body of a dead man! Dead the man seemed, at least, to the girls, who, after one glance into the drawn and ghastly face of their burden, dared not look again. The undertow writhed about their legs, jerked at them wrathfully. Waves crashed upon them with shattering force. Once, Florence was hurled from her footing, but her hands held their grip on the raft. The wrenching shock was sustained by Josephine and the dog. They gave a little, but with fierce, stubborn resistance. Florence regained her feet. The rout was stayed. The pitiful combat between pigmies and Titans was on again. There was good blood in the three. A fighting ancestry had dowered them with the courage that does not know defeat when it is met. Their strength was exhausted. Yet, they battled on. A great comber smashed against them. It snatched the raft from the weakened hold of the girls, threw it far up on the sand. The dog shot in a wide arc through the air. They could hear its grunt as it fell. But the jaws were still locked. In the same instant, the beast was firmly set, hauling at the rope. The raft was held for a little by the dog alone, against the waters as they sucked back. Then, the girls tottered to aid. They fell to their knees in the shallows, and clung frantically. The waves hissed away from them.

They feared the coming of a larger breaker to undo their work. Josephine perceived to her astonishment that the man was not fastened to the raft, except by the vise-like gripping of his big hands. And, too, she saw now that he was living. She guessed that he was stupefied by exhaustion, yet not swooning. She shrieked to him to unclench his fingers. It may be that his dulled brain understood in a measure; it may be that he was come to the very end of his strength. Anyhow, as she put her fingers to his, there was no resistance. The grasp that had withstood the sea's fury, yielded at once to the soft pressure of her touch. The two girls summoned new energy to the task. The dog let go the rope, and, whining curiously, caught a trouser leg between its teeth, and aided. Somehow, the three contrived to roll and push and pull the inert form to a point of safety. Then, they sank down, panting.

Josephine stirred first. With a gasping sigh, she struggled to a sitting position. The dog at once stood up, and shook itself with great violence. The drops splashed over the face of Florence, and she, in turn, opened her eyes, groaned deeply, and sat up, with a wry smile of discomfort.

"What'll we do with the corpse?" she inquired, in an undertaker's best manner.

The funereal suggestion, so sincerely offered, provoked Josephine to a weak peal of laughter.

"Better wait to worry over that till he's dead," she answered briskly, if somewhat incoherently. "And he will be, if we don't watch out. There should be a flask in the motor. Run and get it, Flo. I'll chafe his hands."

"Run!" the other exclaimed. "If I can crawl it, I'll be proud." Nevertheless, she got to her feet, stiffly, but readily enough. "And sprinkle water on his face," she called over her shoulder. "It might cheer him anyhow, after having had it all over him by the ton." Both girls in the first reaction from the stress of their war against death were brimming with joyousness, notwithstanding fatigue.

While Josephine rubbed the rough hands as strongly as she could between her own tender ones, the dog drew near. When the girl looked up, she saw that her pet was licking the man's face. She called out in sharp rebuke. At the same moment, the castaway's eyes unclosed. For long seconds, he stared, unblinking. Then, abruptly, his voice sounded in a low drawl of wonder:

"Hit's thet-thar damned man-faced dawg!"



CHAPTER X

The castaway's gaze went to the girl kneeling beside him.

"An' the furrin woman!" he muttered.

Florence came running with the flask, which was full of brandy.

"Quick!" Josephine urged. "He's better, but he's raving crazy. Thinks I'm a foreigner."

But, as Florence could have filled the cup of the flask, Zeke interposed, with more animation than he had hitherto shown.

"If so be that's likker, an' ye 'lows to give hit to me, if hit don't make no p'tic'lar diff'rence to you-all, I'd like to drink hit right smack outen thet-thar new-fangled bottle, jest as we be a-used to doin' in the State o' Wilkes."

"As you wish, of course," Florence replied, soothingly. "It will make a new man of you."

Zeke promptly sat up and put his lips to the mouth of the flask, and held them there while the rhythmic movement of his adam's apple visibly witnessed thirstiness. The girls regarded him with astonishment, which quickly merged in dismay, for they could not guess the boomer's capacity for fiery drink. As a matter of fact, Zeke, while he drank, lamented the insipidity of the draught, and sighed for a swig of moonshine to rout the chill in his veins with its fluid flames. He, in turn, was presently to learn, with astonishment, that a beverage so mild to the taste had all the potency of his mountain dram, and more. Chilled as he had been by the long hours of exposure to the night air of the sea, while drifting the fifteen miles from Ocracoke Inlet, and worn in body and mind by the peril of his situation, Zeke found himself almost at once strengthened and cheered by the generous spirit. He was, in fact, another man than the exhausted castaway, as the girl had promised; he was himself again. He was still weak and shaken; but his splendid vitality was asserting itself. The gray, drawn face was colored to golden tan; the clear eyes were shining with new appreciation of the joy of life. He had not thought much after the very first, during those long, racking hours of tossing on the sea. His brain had become numb. His fancies had run to tender memories of moments spent with Plutina. Often, he had felt her presence there with him, in the dark spaces of the sea. But the idea that most dominated his mind had sprung from the lusty instinct of self-preservation; he must cling to the raft. It had been the one thing that he could do toward safety. His whole will had centered in the clutch of his hands on the tubes.

Seeing the man thus recovered, the girls withdrew toward the runabout to adjust their clothing, and to find some garment for the man, since he wore only shirt and trousers. But the bull-terrier, for a wonder, did not follow its mistress. Instead, it sat on its haunches close to the mountaineer, and muzzled his hand. Zeke pulled the dog's ears gently.

"That thump I gin ye must 'a' struck plumb down to yer heart, an' made a right-smart change in yer affections. Ye wa'n't so dummed friendly when ye tuck thet-thar hunk out o' my pants."

The dog whined an answer, and crept fawningly into the mountaineer's lap, where it nestled contentedly. It was thus that the girls, returning with a rain-coat, found the two, and they stared in surprise, for the bull-terrier was none too amiable with strangers.

"I never knew Chubbie make friends like that before," Josephine exclaimed. She looked in fresh curiosity upon the wholesome face with the regular features, rather stern in repose, but now softened by a smile. "It must be because he helped us pull you out. We couldn't have done it without him. That makes you belong to him, in a way."

Zeke stared at the dog, with new respect.

"The darned son of a gun!" he ejaculated, gravely. "I reckon," he continued after a meditative pause, "the little cuss felt like he owed me somethin' fer sp'ilin' my jeans. That crack I gin him put the fear o' God into his bosom, so to speak. 'The more ye beat 'em, the better they be.'"

Josephine started at his words. Without a hat, the dark curls had given a look so different to the face that, until now, she had not recognized the man of the ferry-boat.

"Why," she cried, "you are the one!" She turned to the bewildered Florence. Her blue eyes were flashing; her voice was hard. "He's the creature that almost killed Chubbie. And to think we troubled to save him!"

"That hell-fired pup o' your'n took a holt on me first," Zeke protested wrathfully, forgetful of his reconciliation with the dog. Then, a plaintive whine recalled him. He smiled whimsically, as he patted the bull-terrier's head, which was lifted toward him fondly. The anger died out of his face, and he smiled. "I've hearn these-hyar dumb critters git things 'bout right by instinct, somehow. Yer dawg's done fergive me. Won't you-all, mum?"

Josephine hesitated. The ingenuous appeal touched her. Only pride held her from yielding.

"An', besides," Zeke went on, "ye was a-sayin' as how the dawg kind o' felt I belonged to him like, bein' he he'ped pull me out o' the ocean, an' so he had to like me. Thet-thar argyment goes fer you-all, too, mum. So, I 'low ye gotter fergive me—specially kase yer dawg begun hit."

Josephine relaxed with a ripple of laughter. The mountaineer both interested and pleased her. To her inevitable interest in one whom she had helped to save from death, there was now added a personal attraction. She perceived, with astonishment, that this was by no means the hulking brute she had deemed him when her pet had suffered at his hands. The dog's attitude toward him impressed her deeply. Moreover, she saw that he was intelligent, as well as naive. She perceived that he had humor and quickness of feeling. His responsiveness to the dog's advances pleased her. She was greedy of experience and knowledge, easily bored by familiar things, likely to be vastly interested, for a brief season, in the new and strange. She realized that here, ready to her hand, was a type wholly novel. She felt that it was her prerogative to understand something of the nature of this singular being thus cast at her feet by fate. Certainly, it would be absurd to cherish any rancor. As he had said, the dog's action sufficed. Besides, she must be friendly if she would learn concerning this personality. Every reason justified inclination. She rebelled no longer. Her blue eyes gleamed with genuine kindliness, as she spoke:

"I'll take Chubbie's word for it." Her voice became authoritative. "Now, if you feel equal to standing up, we'll have this rain-coat on you, and then run you down to the yacht. We'll attend to landing you somewhere after you've rested and had something to eat."

Already Josephine's brain was busy, scheming to her own ends, but of this she gave no hint.

Zeke pushed away the reluctant dog, and rose up stiffly. The stimulation of the brandy stood him in good stead.

"I 'low I'm havin' a right-smart lot of experience," he remarked, chuckling. "What with steam-cars, an' boats, an' wrecks, an' now one o' them ornery devil-wagons. I hain't a-feared none," he added, musingly, "but I hain't a-pinin' neither. I reckon I kin stand anythin' what gals an' a dog kin. I'm plumb nervous or hungry—I don't know which. Both, like's not!"

He rejected the offer of support, and walked firmly enough to the machine, which he eyed distrustfully. Florence took the rear seat, and Zeke established himself beside Josephine, the dog between his feet. After the first few minutes, he found himself delighting in this smooth, silent rush over the white sands. In answer to Josephine's question, he gave a bare outline of his adventures in the three days of his absence from the mountains.

"I was a-hankerin' arter experience," he concluded, "an' aimin' to make my everlastin' fortin. I been doin' pretty peart, so fer."

"You've certainly had more than your share of experience in the time," Josephine agreed; "though I don't know about the fortune."

"Started right-smack off at the rate of more'n seventy-five thousand dollars a year," Zeke rejoined, complacently. He laughed joyously at the bewildered face the girl turned to him.

"I done figured hit out las' night, not havin' much of anythin' to do on thet-thar raft, 'cept to stick." He gave an account of the capture of the negro outlaw, for which he had received a reward. "I'm only a-jokin', of course," he went on with new seriousness. "I hain't pinin' fer no foolishness. All I want is enough so's not to be hog-pore. An' I got a chance to learn somethin', an' to make somethin', an', arter all, go right on livin' in my own country. An' that's what Plutiny wants, too. An' I'll have enough to buy her straighteners, if she wants 'em, by cracky!"

"Oh—straighteners?" Josephine repeated, mystified. Vague memories of a visit to a hospital suggested an explanation. "Then, this person you speak of, Plutina, is deformed?"

"Deformed!" For an instant, Zeke could only repeat the word, helplessly.

"A curvature of the spine, I suppose," Josephine continued, without interest. She had her eyes on the ribbon of sand now, and guessed nothing as to her companion's disturbance, until his voice came in a burst of protest that made her jump.

"Plutiny—deformed!" he exclaimed, harshly. Then, his voice softened wonderfully, though it shook with the tensity of his feeling. "Why, Plutiny's better'n anybody else in all the world—she is, an' she looks hit. Plutiny—deformed! Why, my Plutiny's straight as thet-thar young pine tree atop Bull Head Mounting. An' she's as easy an' graceful to bend an' move as the alders along Thunder Branch. There hain't nary other woman in all the world to ekal my Plutiny. Plutiny—deformed! Why, mum, you-all talk plumb foolish."

The girl was too astonished before this outburst to take offense.

"But you spoke about straighteners for her," she protested.

Zeke stared for a moment, then grinned understandingly.

"Thet's what we-uns call 'em," he said. "You-all call 'em corsets."

Yet, the effect of this conversation reached beyond the humorous. In some subtle fashion, it provoked the girl to keener interest in the young man. She was perhaps, though she would have denied the suggestion hotly, a little piqued by the exaltation with which he praised his rustic sweetheart. Josephine was an exceedingly attractive young woman, and she was accustomed to having men show their appreciation of the fact. It was new to her thus essentially to be ignored, and not quite agreeable. There could be no tender interest between herself and this handsome barbarian. The idea even of flirtation was quite inconceivable. Nevertheless, it was strange that he should be so imperceptive of her charms. Doubtless, his eyes were blind to the refinements of beauty. They should be opened. It would be dreadful if the fellow should grow away from the girl who was waiting for him. And yet—Josephine checked her thoughts, and blushed a little. But a plan matured.

That plan was followed diplomatically when she secured a private interview with her father, after the return on board the yacht.

"Daddy, dear," she said, with a manner as casual as she could contrive, "let's keep this Mister Higgins on board. He's bound for New York, but in no particular hurry. We'll get him there in about ten days."

Mr. Blaise, who was a plethoric, fussy little man, adamant to all the world save his only child, regarded her now in perplexity, his shrewd eyes a bit mischievous.

"I don't imagine it's to be the stereotyped romance, just because you dragged him out of the sea," he said. "The chap has the makings of considerable of a man in him, and he's good-looking enough to catch a girl's fancy; but he's not your sort. So, why?"

"Besides," Josephine retorted, smiling, "Florence has the same right in him as treasure trove. That would make the romance too complicated."

"Why?" Mr. Blaise repeated.

"I've never met anyone like him," the girl explained, with truth, if not all the truth. "He's unique. I want to study him. Such knowledge is broadening—better than books."

"Bosh!" was the comment. "You mean, he's just a freak to you, and you'd like to look him over a little longer. There's no harm in that, if it amuses you. But don't be silly about broadening yourself." He regarded his daughter critically. "And leave out the deserts. They're too broadening, if you like. You're getting plump."

Josephine accepted this meekly, in her satisfaction over having her way as to the new guest.

"I'll go and invite him, right away," she exclaimed. "He'll liven us up."

But her father wrinkled his brows in doubt.

"What about the effect on the young fellow, himself?" he demanded. "It can't do him any good, Josie. That sort of thing's unsettling, you know."

Josephine attempted no reply, as she went on her way. Her father could not see the flush that touched her cheeks.

Through such devious ways did it come to pass that the mountaineer entered a world of which he had never even dreamed. His own complete ignorance of social conditions prevented him from appreciating the marvel wrought by fate in his behalf. In the simplicity of his character, he accepted the change as a perfectly natural event in the world that he had set out to explore. It was this simplicity, which kept him from undue self-consciousness, that carried him safely through what must otherwise have been an ordeal. He accepted what had befallen thankfully, and sought to learn what he best might from the novel environment. His interest was conspicuously in others, not in himself. He was greedy of information, lavish in liking. By a benign miracle, there were no snobs in the yachting party, which included also two young men, and two of the owner's age, besides Josephine's aunt. This chaperon was a motherly soul, and, in sheer kindliness of heart did much to make the situation easy. The informality of the party, too, was a tremendous advantage to the young man, though he never guessed it. On the contrary, he accepted things as they were enthusiastically, with never a thought of dismay. In flannels loaned him by the largest guest, which fitted too snugly, he presented an appearance so excellent that Mr. Blaise was moved to pinch his daughter's ear, while reminding her of the stereotyped romance.

Such was the cause of Plutina's wearisome waiting for the letter that did not come. Zeke found, to his distress, too late that an interval of a week or more must elapse before a letter posted in Bermuda could possibly reach the mountains. But, beyond that, there was nothing to disturb the girl who loved him. The heart of the lad amid the luxuries of life on the yacht was unchanged in its devotion. It was, indeed, as if he saw all things as a frame for her. He was forever thinking how Plutina would look here or there, in connection with this or the other. The gowns of the three women, were viewed critically in relation to the mountain girl. He would imagine her loveliness enhanced by the sheen of silk, by the films of lace, by the lusters of jewels. Josephine thought once when she appeared in a dainty evening frock, not too daring, that she had penetrated his armor of aloofness, for he blushed hotly as his eyes went to her neck, and his gaze fell. She was deceived. He remembered in that moment, how he had once kissed the soft whiteness of Plutina's throat, where the homespun gown lay open. Now, memory of the warm bliss of that kiss sent the blood racing and tingling.

That self-deception was as near as Josephine ever came to triumph.

Florence understood, to some extent, at least, the mood that influenced her friend. A feminine intuition inspired in her a like ambition to pierce this young savage's reserve. Through her own feeling, she readily divined that of Josephine. Thus, the two became unconfessed allies in the employment of their wiles against an unsuspecting victim. It was, indeed, the lack of suspicion on his part that irritated them to the point of exasperation. He was so utterly innocent of their manoeuvers against his peace! Both of the girls were attractive beyond the average. Josephine, a plump blonde, ingenuous of manner, sophisticated, capricious, yet not spoiled, egotistic, but winsome, full of electric vitality; Florence, taller and darker, with an air more sedate, yet doubtless capable of deeper and more enduring emotions. Each possessed excellent features, and the fascinations of radiant health, sufficient culture, and the most exquisite refinements of personal detail. They deserved the humble admiration of any man. They expected tender adulation from most, and from most they received it. At the outset a certain impassivity on the part of this wild mountaineer excited their astonishment, then, quickly, their dissatisfaction. They were moved to a caprice against his calm, against this indifference that was an affront. They had no wish to work him serious harm, but his disregard was intolerable. Since the heart of neither was engaged, there was no jealousy between them in the affair. Since each was secretly ashamed of her motives, there was no confidence between them.

Their failure, in the lazy days and evenings of voyaging and of rambling in the Bermudan islands, was undeniable. It was the more aggravating since the young man patently admired them. Even, his admiration was excessive, almost reverential, at times. Yet, it was altogether impersonal. They came eventually to know that this mountaineer regarded them with warm friendliness, with a lively gratitude, with a devoted respect, with a certain veneration. But that was all. No dart from their quiver of charms touched to the passionate heart of him—nor ever could. From whichever side the shafts were thrown, always they were shattered against a white shield, and fell harmless. That shield was Plutina.

One night, as the yacht neared New York, Josephine and Zeke sat together, watching the scud of clouds across the moon. The mountaineer spoke softly, after an interval of silence.

"The clouds is runnin' thar jest as I've seen 'em lookin' out across the valley from Stone Mounting—with Plutiny." There was a caress in his voice.

Josephine checked an ejaculation of impatience. The savage was incorrigible—quite! Him, and his everlasting Plutina! Perverse curiosity overcame discretion. Perhaps, too, after all, he only needed guidance. She tried to believe, though vainly, that only shyness prevented him from improving an opportunity any other man would have coveted.

"Tell me," she said softly, with a sympathetic lure in her tones, "is Plutina so very beautiful?"

The lure was effective. Zeke turned to her with the hazel eyes darkly luminous in the moonlight.

"Tiny's beautiful," he answered tenderly; and there was music now in the slow drawl. "I 'low she's the most beautiful woman in the world."

"I'm afraid you're prejudiced," Josephine objected, with a disarming laugh. "Of course, you ought to think so, but, really you know, you haven't quite seen all the beautiful women in the world. Now, have you?"

"All I need to," was the confident assurance. "Why," he continued with an apologetic smile for his boldness. "I done seen you-all, Miss Blaise, an' I reckon you-all are about as beautiful as a woman kin be—'ceptin' Plutina."

The tribute was potent from its very unexpectedness. It eased the chagrin from which vanity had suffered. Evidently, her charms were not disregarded. It was simply that this lover had given his heart, and that he was loyal. The girl sighed a little enviously at the realization. She knew too well that many, perhaps most, in her world were not loyal, even when their hearts were given. She wondered if, in truth, there awaited her the boon of a like faithfulness. Yet she persevered in her probing.

"Out in the world," she said musingly, "where things are so different from up in your mountains, you may change. It may be you won't want to go back, to the hills—to Plutina."

A flush of wrath burned in Zeke's cheeks, visible in the gloom.

"Hit ain't fittin' fer you-all to say no such thing, Miss Blaise. But I kin fergive ye, kase ye hain't seen our mountings. They hain't no other place more beautiful. Mister Sutton done told me so, an' he's been all over the hull world. An', besides, hit's home. A man what don't love his home country better'n any other—why, mum, he's jest a plain skunk.... An' Plutiny, she's the best part o' home. There hain't no land so beautiful, nor no woman. No, mum, I sha'n't change—never! I kain't!"

And Josephine knew that it was so, and once again she sighed.



CHAPTER XI

Uncle Dick, as he was universally known in the mountains, had celebrated his eightieth birthday before his granddaughters, Plutina and Alvira, by leaping high in the air, and knocking his heels together three times before returning to the ground. There was, in fact, no evidence of decrepitude anywhere about him. The thatch of coal-black hair was only moderately streaked with gray, and it streamed in profuse ringlets to his shoulders. His black eyes were still keen; the leathery face, with its imperious features, was ruddy. He carried his six-foot-three of bone and muscle lightly.

As of the body, so of the heart. The springs of feeling in him showed no signs of drying up. On the contrary, they threatened to gush forth in a new flood over the Widow Brown, on whose plump prettiness, hardly dimmed by her three-score years, he looked with appreciative and ardent eyes. Indeed, his conduct justified the womenfolk of his household in apprehensions, for witness to the seriousness of the affair was afforded the morning after the raid on Dan Hodges' still. He demanded of Alvira that she burn the grease from an old skillet with great care.

"If they's a mite of hit, hit makes a scum, an' floats off the gold on hit," he explained.

The sisters regarded each other in consternation, but forebore questioning. When he had mounted his mare, and ridden away, Plutina spoke with bitterness:

"I reckon Mis' Higgins done hit the nail on the haid 'bout Gran'pap an' the Widder Brown."

Alvira nodded.

"Yep. Hit means business, shore, if he's a-gallavantin' over to Pleasant Valley to pan gold. Hit means he's aimin' to marry her." She waxed scornful, with the intolerance of her sixteen years. "Hit's plumb ridic'lous—at his age."

"Seems like he was 'most ole enough to git sense," Plutina agreed.

"Mebby we're mistook 'bout his intentions," Alvira suggested, hopefully. "O' course, he git's a heap of enjoyment settin' to Widder Brown. But he hain't got to be plumb foolish, an' marry her. I guess as how hit's fer you-all he's arter the gold kase Zeke'll be comin' home by-'n'-bye."

Plutina shook her head dubiously. It was the custom of the lover himself to seek, in the gold-bearing sands of the tiny mountain stream to the west, for the grains from which to fashion a ring for his sweetheart. Many a wife of the neighborhood wore such proudly on forefinger or thumb. The old man was not fond enough of toil to undertake the slow washing out of gold there unless for a selfish sentimental reason. And her fears were confirmed that afternoon by Zeke's mother whom she visited.

"They hain't nary chance to save him no more," the old woman averred, lugubriously. "Hit's allus been said hyarbouts as how a feller allus gits his gal shore, if he pans her a ring in Pleasant Valley."

"Huh—girl!" quoth Plutina.

Yet this amorous affair was of small moment just now to the granddaughter, though she voluntarily occupied her thoughts with it. She hoped thus to keep in the background of her mind the many fears that threatened peace, by reason of her part in the night's work. She knew that she could trust the secrecy of Marshal Stone, but there was the possibility of discovery in some manner unforeseen. There was even the chance that suspicion against her had been aroused in Ben York. She could not bear to contemplate what must follow should her betrayal of the still become known. It was a relief to be certain that the two men she chiefly dreaded would be in jail, and unable personally to wreak vengeance. It was improbable, she thought, that persons so notorious and so detested could secure bail. But, even with them out of the way, the case would be disastrous on account of her grandfather's hatred of the revenue officers, and more especially, of those among his own people guilty of the baseness of informing. Should her deed come to his knowledge, it would mean tragedy. She dreaded the hour when he should hear of the raid, and was glad that he had gone away, for in all likelihood he would have the news before his return and the first shock of it would have passed.... So it fell out.

Uncle Dick rode briskly toward the little stream that tumbles down the mountain west of Air Bellows Gap, where long ago men washed for gold in feverish desire of wealth. Now, none sought a fortune in the branch grit, where a day's labor at best could yield no more than a dollar or two in gold. Only devoted swains, like himself, hied them there to win wherewithal for a bauble with which to speed their wooing. Uncle Dick chose a favorable spot, and washed steadily until the blackened old copper skillet itself shone like the flecks of gold he sought. When he ceased he had a generous pinch of the precious dust carefully disposed in a vial. He hid the skillet to serve another day, and set out on his return. Before he crossed Garden Greek, a neighbor, whom he met on the trail, told him of the raid. Eager for all particulars, Uncle Dick turned his mount into the high road, and hurried to Joines' store. The single-footing mare carried him quickly to this place of assembly for neighborhood gossip, where he found more than the usual number gathered, drawn by excitement over the raid. The company was in a mixed mood, in which traditional enmity against the "revenuers" warred against personal rejoicing over the fate fallen on Dan Hodges, whom they hated and feared. From the garrulous circle of his acquaintance, Uncle Dick speedily learned the history of the night. The account was interrupted by the coming of a clerk to the store door. He waved his hand toward the group on the steps to command attention.

"You, Uncle Dick!" he called. "No'th Wilkesboro' wants ye on the telephone."

Wondering mightily at the unexpected summons, the old man hurried to the instrument.

"Hello! Hello!" he roared, in a voice to be heard across the miles.

"Be that you-all, Uncle Dick?" the question came thinly.

"Yep. Who be you?"

"Hit's Dan Hodges. I reckon you-all done hearn 'bout last night."

"Yep. I shore have hearn a heap," Uncle Dick acquiesced, sourly. "I tole ye to quit, the officers air gittin' so a'mightly peart. They hain't no more chance fer a good set o' men to make a run—to say nothin' of a wuthless gang like your'n.... What ye want o' me?"

The reply was explicit enough.

"The hearin' 's to-morrer 'fore the United States Commissioner. Marshal Stone says the bail'll be two thousand dollars, cash or land. They hain't nobody kin put hit up, 'cept you-all, Uncle Dick. An', if ye don't, Ben an' me'll have to lay in jail till Fall. If ye'll he'p me, Uncle Dick, ye know Dan Hodges won't never fail ye."

"That's what I'm afeared on," Uncle Dick retorted, glumly. "I 'most know 'twas you-all an' yer gang kilt thet-thar heifer o' mine in cold blood. Now, the ole man ye've treated dirt is yer las' chance. Wall, cuss ye! I'll come down t'-morrer an' bail ye out—not kase I love ye any, but kase I'm again the revenuers. An' listen 'ere! I'm some old, but I'm some spry yit, ye bet! You-all stop round these parts whar I kin keep an eye on ye till Fall Cote. If ye don't, damn ye!—wall, my ole rifle's bright an' 'iled, an' I'll git ye! Jest remember thet, Dan Hodges: I'll git ye!" And with this grim warning, Uncle Dick slammed the receiver on its hook, and stalked out of the store.

On the following day, he journeyed duly to North Wilkesboro', where, despite the protest of his lawyer, he put up his land as security for the appearance of the two malefactors. Uncle Dick was a consistent conservative. Had the accident of birth made him an English squire, he would have been a stanch Tory, would have held the King's commission on the bench of justices, and would have administered the penalties of the law with exceeding severity against poachers. Having been born in the Blue Ridge Mountains, he staked his property in behalf of two scoundrels, for the sake of an inherited feud against the Federal authority.

Nevertheless, his personal distrust of the men he had thus relieved was made manifest when, immediately after the commitment of the two before the Commissioner, he betook himself to a hardware store, where he bought a forty-one caliber Colt's revolver, with a holster and a box of cartridges. He had given up the habitual carrying of weapons on his seventy-fifth birthday, as unseemly and unnecessary for one of his patriarchal years. Now, he reverted to the use as a measure of prudence.

"The damned dawg's done me dirt, an' he hain't above doin' hit ag'in," he muttered, as he strapped the holster beneath his left arm.

To his womankind, Uncle Dick spoke of the affair casually, concealing his apprehensions. Neither of the granddaughters ventured remonstrance, though Alvira's pretty face was mutinous, and Plutina felt a sickening sense of calamity rushing upon her. It seemed to her the irony of fate that her own relation should thus interfere to render abortive the effect she had risked so much to secure. She realized, with a shrinking misery, that the sufferers from her act were now at liberty to inflict vengeance upon her, should suspicion be born in them. For the first time in her life, Plutina experienced a feminine cowardice, bewailing her helplessness. There was none to whom she might turn for counsel; none, even, in whom she might confide. It was no mere chimera of fear that beset her. She was far too sensible and too strong for hysterical imaginings. But she knew that her peril was real and grave. In the face of it, she felt suddenly a new longing for the absent lover. Hitherto, her fondness had been tender and passionate, touched with the maternal protectiveness that is instinctive in every woman. Now, a new desire of him leaped in her. She yearned for rest on his bosom, secure within the shelter of his arms, there to pour forth all the story of her trouble, there to hear his voice of consolation, there to be at peace. She touched the fairy crystal that lay between her breasts, and she smiled, very sadly, and very wistfully.

"Zeke will shorely come," she whispered, "if I need him—bad enough."

There was a tremor in her voice, but it was not of doubt.



CHAPTER XII

Early in the morning following his trip to North Wilkesboro' Uncle Dick Siddon rode off to Pleasant Valley, there to prosecute his sentimental labors for the pleasuring of the Widow Brown. Alvira fared abroad on some errand to a neighboring cabin. Plutina, her usual richness of coloring dimmed by a troubled night, was left alone. In the mid-forenoon she was sitting on the porch, busy over a pan of beans, which she was stringing for dinner. As she chanced to raise her eyes, she saw Dan Hodges coming up the path. At sight of the evil lowering face, repulsion flared hot in the girl. The instinct of flight was strong, but her good sense forbade it. She felt a stirring of unfamiliar terror in the presence of the man. She scorned herself for the weakness, but it persisted. Her very fear dictated the counsels of prudence. She believed that in dissimulation lay her only possibility of safety. The thought of any intercourse with the moonshiner was unspeakably repugnant, yet she dared not risk needless offense. Nevertheless, the first effect of her resolve was a self-contempt that moved her to wrath, and made her opening speech more venomous even than it had been otherwise.

"Howdy, my little honey?" Hodges called out as he shambled to a halt before her. His coarse features writhed in a simper that intensified their ugliness. His coveting of this woman was suddenly magnified by sight of her loveliness, flawless in the brilliant light. The blood-shot eyes darted luxuriously over the curving graces beneath the scant homespun garment.

The girl sensed the insult of the man's regard. It, rather than the insolent familiarity of address, provoked her outburst.

"Shet yer mouth, Dan Hodges," she snapped. "I've done told ye afore, ye kain't 'honey' me. If ye wants to pass the time o' day, jest don't fergit as how hit's Miss Plutiny fer you-all."

Hodges gaped bewilderedly under the rebuke. Then he growled defiantly.



"Wall, I'll be dogged! Quite some spit-fire, hain't ye? Reckon I know what's a-bitin on ye. Ye're mad kase Uncle Dick tuk the mounting land ye gals look to heir to, to bail me and Ben." He stared at the girl ominously, with drawn brows. His voice was guttural with threatening. "So be ye mout hev to eat them words o' your'n. Mebby, when I've done tole ye a thing er two, ye'll be a-askin' of me to call ye 'honey.' Mebby, ye'll want to hover yer ole 'hon,' arter I let's ye know a thing or two 'bout the doin's o' you-all an' thet damned little runt, thet reportin' dawg sweetheart o' your'n—Zeke Higgins."

The girl was stricken. She understood the outlaw's reference. Somehow he had gained certain knowledge of Zeke's part in saving the Quaker-school-teacher spy. She realized that the criminal gang would not hesitate at the murder of one who had thus foiled them. For the moment, she gave no heed to the danger that menaced herself as well. Her whole concern was for her lover. The single comfort came from the fact of his absence. Much as she had been longing for his coming, her prayer now was that he should not return until these men were imprisoned.

With a fierce effort toward bravery in the face of catastrophe, Plutina stood up, and drew herself proudly erect. Her dark eyes flashed wrathfully. She spoke with disdain:

"Ye wouldn't dast say that to Zeke Higgins' teeth. Mebby, he hain't so thick through as you-all, and he hain't so thick-headed, nuther. An' he hain't no runt, as ye'd find quick 'nuf, if so be's ye dast stand up to him, man to man, 'stid o' with a gun from the laurel. He's a man—what you-all hain't. He hain't the kind to layway from the bushes, ner to be a-stealin' his neighbor's cattle an' hawgs. An' what's more Dan Hodges, ef ye say as how Zeke ever reported ary still, ye're a hell-bustin' liar!"

Her jibes were powerless against the coarse-fibered brute. He grinned malevolently as he jeered at her.

"Thar, now! Hain't it a pity to have a sweetheart what hain't brave 'nuf to stand 'is ground, an' runs off, an' leaves 'is gal to fit fer 'im." Then, abruptly, the moonshiner's expression changed to one meant to be ingratiating. "Wall, now, Miss Plutiny, I shore likes the way ye stan's up fer the pore cuss. But, arter all, hes' done up and left ye. An' he hain't comin' back. Hit wouldn't be healthy fer him to come back," he added, savagely. "An' what's more, ye hain't a-gwine to jine 'im whar he's at. The Hodges' crowd won't stan' fer no sech! He's been writ, Zeke Higgins has, with the sign o' the skull an' the cross—the hull thing. Ye know what thet means, I reckon."

Plutina blenched, and seated herself again, weakly. It was true, she knew the fantastic rigmarole, which made absurd the secret dictates of these illiterate desperadoes. But that absurdity meant death, none the less—death for the one she loved. In her misery, she listened almost apathetically as Hodges went on talking in his heavy, grating voice.

"Zeke Higgins knows as how the Allens give us the word 'bout 'is crossin' Bull Head with the spy. He knows thet, if 'e shows up in this-hyar kentry ag'in, the Devil's Pot'll have 'im fer a b'ilin'. An' thet's 'nuf fer Zeke's case. Now, we'll jest chin a mite 'bout your'n."

There was a little interval of silence, in which the girl stared unseeingly toward the splendors of the blossoming rhododendrons that fringed the clearing. The apathy had passed now, and she listened intently, with self-control to mask the despair that welled in her heart. It seemed to her that here was the need for that dissimulation she had promised herself—need of it for life's sake, however hateful it might be, however revolting to her every instinct. So she listened in a seeming of white calm, while the flames shriveled her soul.

The man straightened his great bulk a little, and regarded the girl with new earnestness. Into his speech crept a rude eloquence, for he voiced a sincere passion, though debased by his inherent bestiality.

"Plutiny Siddon, I've knowed ye, an' I've craved ye, this many year. Some way, hit just seemed as how I couldn't he'p hit. The more ye mistreated me, the more I wanted ye. Hit shames me, but hit's true as preachin'. An' hit's true yit—even arter seein' yer bare futprint tracks thar on the Branch, alongside them of a man with shoes—the damned revenuer what got us. Ye showed 'im the place, Plutiny Siddon—cuss ye, fer a spy!... An' I craves ye jest the same.... An' I'll have ye—right soon!"

At this saying, terror mounted high in the girl. The thing she so dreaded was come to pass. She forgot, for a few moments, the threats against her lover. Despair crushed her in the realization of discovery. Her treachery was known to the man she feared. The peril she had voluntarily risked was fallen upon her. She was helpless, at the mercy of the criminal she had betrayed—and she knew that there was no mercy in him. She shrank physically, as under a blow, and sat huddled a little, in a sudden weakness of body under the soul's torment. Yet she listened with desperate intentness, as Hodges went on speaking. She cast one timid glance toward him, then dropped her gaze, revolted at the grotesque grimaces writhen by the man's emotions.

"Harkin to me, Miss Plutiny!" he pleaded, huskily. "Harkin to me! I knows what I'm a-doin' of. They hain't nothin' ye kin do to stop me. Kase why? Wall, if ye love yer gran'pap, ye'll hold yer tongue 'bout all my talk. Yep! He's done pledged his land to keep me an' Ben out o' the jail-house till cote. If ye tells 'im I'm a-misusin' o' ye, he'd cancel the bond, an' try to deliver me up. I knows all thet. But he wouldn't cancel no bond, an' no more he wouldn't do any deliverin' o' me up. Kase why? Kase he'd jest nacherly die fust. Thet's why. The land'd be good fer the bond jest the same till Fall. Thet'd give me an' Ben a heap o' time to git ready to light out o' this-hyar kentry. They hain't nary pusson a-goin' to bother us none. They knows hit's healthier a-mindin' their own business. I been dodgin' revenuers fifteen year, an' I'll dodge ag'in, an' take my savin's along, too. An' they's quite some savin's, Plutiny."

Hodges paused, as if to give greater impressiveness to the conclusion of his harangue. His voice as he continued held a note of savage finality.

"So, ye understand, Plutiny, I hain't afeared none arter what I done told ye'll happen, if so be ye talk. I knows ye love yer gran'pap, an' hain't a hankerin' fer 'im to be murdered. Now, I'm gwine to leave ye till t'-morrer, to git kind o' used to the idee as how ye're gwine to leave this-hyar kentry with me arter I pays yer gran'pap the money fer the bail. If you-all is so plumb foolish as to say no, hit 'll jest leave yerself an' yer kin in the hands o' we boys to reckon with. Do as I'm a-sayin' on, an' I'll shore fergit 'bout yer reportin' the still. I'll jest 'low to myself as how ye was only a gal, an' used damn' poor jedgment. I hold hit were powerful unkind o' you-all, seein' as how we-uns hain't never wronged ye none. I suspicion ye had hit figgered out as how Zeke could come back 'ere a'gin if ye had me kotched. Wall, little missy, Dan Hodges air jest a mite too cunnin' fer ye." The boaster gloated over his cowering victim, malice sparkling in his lustful eyes.

It seemed to the girl that she was in truth hopelessly ensnared by fate. Her harried thoughts ran in a circle, dizzily. She could find no loophole for escape from the net. The mesh of the outlaw's deviltry was strong; her flutterings were feeble, futile. She found one ray of comfort in Zeke's absence. She forgot it in distress for the danger to her grandfather. Then, horror for herself beat upon her spirit. But a memory of her first resolve came to her. From stark necessity, she put her whole reliance on an effort to temporize. She felt that her only recourse in this emergency must lie in deceiving the ruffian who thus beset her. Much as she abhorred him, she had no choice. There was none to whom she could appeal for succor. She must depend absolutely upon her ability to beguile him. She must hide the revulsion inspired by his mere presence. She must arm herself with the world-old weapons of her sex, and by wiles blind him to the truth of her feeling, gain time for—something, anything! At least here was room for hope, uncertain, absurd even, yet hope. A little color crept to her pallid cheeks. If she could but manage the deceit to secure delay until the Fall.

She raised her eyes furtively toward the adversary, an appraising glance, as if to judge his gullibility. The brutish passion of the man showed in the pendulous lower lip, thrust forward a little, in the swinish lifting of the wide-flaring nostrils, in the humid glowing of the inflamed eyes. A nausea of disgust swept over her. She fought it down. Then, with hypocrisy that amazed herself, she met his ardent stare boldly, though with a pretense of timidity. She spoke with a hesitant, remonstrant voice, as if in half-hearted protest,

"Hit's dangerous to talk hyar, Dan," she said. She assumed a pose of coquetry. "If I agrees to save Gran'pap an' 'is land, an' takes ye, have ye got money 'nough fer us to git along among the furriners down below?" A pleased smile showed. "An' could ye buy me purty clo's an' sech-like? Don't ye dast lie to me, Dan Hodges, fer a woman wants plenty o' nice fixin's. An' if ye means hit all, like ye says, I'll meet ye at Holloman Gate t'-morrer at twelve, an' give ye yes er no."

The moonshiner received with complacence this evidence of yielding on the girl's part. He had, indeed, the vanity that usually characterizes the criminal. It was inconceivable to his egotism that he must be odious to any decent woman. Plutina's avaricious stipulation concerning money pleased him as a display of feminine shrewdness. He was in nowise offended. The women of his more intimate acquaintance did not scruple to bargain their charms. From such trollops, he gained his estimate of the sex. The sordid pretense by Plutina completed his delusion. The truckling of familiars had inflated conceit. He swelled visibly. The finest girl in the mountains was ready to drop into his arms! Passion drove him toward her.

Plutina raised her hand in an authoritative gesture. She could feign much, but to endure a caress from the creature was impossible. Somehow, by some secret force in the gesture, his advance was checked, he knew not why.

"Not now, Dan," she exclaimed, sharply. She added a lie, in extenuation of the refusal: "Alviry's in the house. Besides, I got to have time to think, like ye said. But I'll be at the gate t'-morrer."

Hodges accepted her decree amiably enough. He was still flattered by her complaisant attitude toward his wooing.

"Ye're talkin' sense, Plutiny—the kind I likes to hear. I'll be thar, waitin' fer ye, ye kin bet on thet." Then his natural truculence showed again in a parting admonition: "An' don't you-all try fer to play Dan Hodges fer a fool. If so be ye does, ye'll wish to God ye hadn't."

With the threat, he turned and went lumbering down the path, to vanish quickly within the shadows of the wood.



CHAPTER XIII

After his day of toil in Pleasant Valley, Uncle Dick Siddon sprawled at ease on the porch, smoking his pipe, and watching with mildly sentimental eyes the rosy hues of the cloud masses that crowned Stone Mountain. His mood was tranquilly amorous. The vial in his pocket was full of golden grains. Presently, he would fashion a ring. Then, heigh-ho for the parson! He smiled contentedly over his vision of the buxom Widow Brown. Her placid charms would soothe his declining years. A tempestuous passion would be unbecoming at his age. But the companionship of this gentle and agreeable woman would be both fitting and pleasant. Really, Uncle Dick mused, it was time he settled down. One should be sedate at eighty. But he sighed.

A horseman appeared over the brow of the hill. The horse traveled slowly, as if wearied by many miles. A single glance at the erect, soldierly figure made known to Uncle Dick that this was a stranger, and he watched intently. As the rider came nearer, he hesitated, then guided his mount toward the clearing. Uncle Dick perceived, of a sudden, that the left sleeve of the stranger's coat, which was pinned across the breast, was empty. At the sight, a great sadness fell on him. He guessed the identity of the horseman. His soul was filled with mourning over a shattered romance. He fairly winced as the rider drew rein before him, with a cheery, "Howdy?"

There was a curious constraint in Uncle Dick's voice, as he made hospitable answer.

"Howdy, yerse'f, Stranger? 'Light, an' come in."

"I hain't time to 'light," the traveler declared. "Jones is my name. What mout your'n be?"

Uncle Dick descended the steps, regarding the visitor intently. There was a perceptible aloofness in his manner, though no lack of courtesy.

"My name passes fer Siddon. I 'low ye hain't familiar round these-hyar parts?"

"I'm right-smart strange, I reckon," was the admission. "But I was borned forty-mile south o' here, on the Yadkin. My father owned the place Daniel Boone lived when he sickened o' this-hyar kentry, kase it wa'n't wild 'nough. I'm kin ter Boone's woman—Bryant strain—raised 'twixt this-hyar creek an' Air Bellows."

"Wall, say ye so!" Uncle Dick exclaimed, heartily. "Why, I knowed ye when ye was a boy. You-all's pap used to buy wool, an' my pap tuk me with 'im to the Boone place with 'is Spring shearin'. Thet makes we-uns some sort o' kin. Ye'd better 'light an' take a leetle breathin' spell. A drink o' my ole brandy might cheer ye. An' ye know," he concluded, with a quick hardening of his tones, "hit's customary to know a stranger's business up in these-hyar mountings."

The horseman took no offense.

"I rid up to the balcony jest to make inquiry 'bout a friend what I hain't seed in a right-smart bit, an' who I learnt was a-livin' a lonely widder's life on Guarding Creek. Could you-all direct me to the abode o' one Widder Brown? I hev some private an' pussonal business with the widder. Hit's a kind what don't consarn nary human critter but me an' her."

Uncle Dick sought no further for information, but issued the requested direction, and moodily watched the horseman out of sight. Then, with a sigh that was very like a groan, he moved away toward a small outbuilding, in which was a forge. Here when he had set the forge glowing, he took from his pocket the vial of gold dust, and emptied the contents into a ladle. When the metal was melted, he poured off the dross, and proceeded to hammer the ingot into a broad band. Eventually, he succeeded in forming a massive ring of the virgin gold. But, throughout the prosecution of the task, there was none of that fond elation which had upborne him during the hours while he gathered the material. On the contrary, his shaggy brows were drawn in a frown of disappointment. He cursed below his breath from time to time, with pointed references to one-armed veterans, who dast come back when they hadn't orter. He was still in a saddened and rebellious mood, when he returned to the porch, where he found his granddaughters seated at some sewing. His face lightened a little at sight of them.

"Guess I got my han's full 'nough o' women-folks, anyhow," he muttered. "Fine gals they be, too!" He regarded them attentively, with a new pride of possession. "I 'low I hain't a-kickin' much of any. I reckon like 'nough I be settled down right now, only I didn't know 'nough to know it." He chuckled over this conceit, as he seated himself, and became uncommonly sociable, somewhat to the distress of Plutina, who found it difficult to conceal her anxiety.

Dusk was falling when the horseman reappeared. This time there was no hesitation, as he turned from the road into the clearing. Uncle Dick rose, and shouted greeting, with labored facetiousness.

"Wall, Mister Jones, I 'lowed as how ye mout be the tax-collector, arter the widder's mite, seein' how long ye was a-hangin' on up thar. Me an' the gals'd feel a right-smart consarn to lose Fanny Brown fer a neighbor, if she was pushed too hard fer her debts."

"Mister Siddon, suh," the stranger answered promptly. "I opine you-all hain't half-bad at a guess. I be a tax-collector, so to speak, a debt-collector. Hit's a debt contracted fifty-year agone. Fanny Brown done tole me as how you-all been good neighbors o' her'n, so I don't mind tellin' ye she's willin' fer me to collect thet-thar debt o' mine." There was an expression of vast complacency on the veteran's face, as he stroked the tuft of whisker on his chin, and he smiled on his three auditors half-triumphantly, half-shamefacedly. "I got cheated o' her oncet by being too slow. I hain't goin' to do no sech foolishness ag'in. T'-morrer, if the clerk's office is open, I'll git the satisfaction piece an' Preacher Roberts'll tie the knot good and proper—amen!"

Uncle Dick sighed audibly at the announcement, but his chagrin was given no further expression as he invited the victorious rival to dismount and partake of his hospitality. Alvira received the news with bubbling delight, which showed gaily in her sparkling black eyes and dimpling cheeks. Even Plutina was heartened by the discovery that her grandfather's folly, as she deemed it, must end, though there could be no gladness in her by reason of the fear.

It was after the supper was done, when the visitor's horse stood at the door, that Uncle Dick took a sudden resolve.

"Alviry," he ordered, "you-all come hold this-hyar hoss, a leetle minute, whilst me an' 'im has a confab."

He led the puzzled veteran to a bench beneath a locust, out of earshot of his granddaughters, who regarded the proceeding curiously, and not without apprehension since they knew the violent temper of the old man when thwarted. They were relieved to perceive that his demeanor remained altogether peaceable.

"Hit's jest this-away, Seth Jones," Uncle Dick began at once, after the two were seated side by side on the bench. "Ye see, I knew you-all, an' yer name an' yer business, soon's I sot eyes on ye. Hit were thet-thar danglin' sleeve o' your'n as ye rid up the path what done hit. I knowed then as how my fate was sealed, s' fur's the Widder Brown's consarned. Fanny done told me about you-all an' yer disapp'intment. She allers said, arter her man died, as how ye'd be a-comin' 'long, though I was hopin' ye wouldn't—cuss ye! Excuse me—no offense intended. The widder an' me has been clost friends, an' I told her from the first as how I respected the claims of this-hyar Jones galoot, if so be he turned up afore we got hitched. An' now hyar ye be—dang hit!"

The veteran cleared his throat apologetically. His own happiness made him exaggerate the injury thus wrought by his reappearance. He ventured no remark, however. He could not say that the woman in the case was hardly worth troubling over, and, for the life of him, he could think of nothing else in the way of consolation. He discreetly cleared his throat a second time, and maintained a masterly silence. But the garrulous old man at his side needed no encouragement. He quickly resumed his discourse, with a certain unctuous enjoyment, distinctly inconsistent with his love-lorn pose.

"Seth Jones," he announced solemnly, "if you-all an' me was young ag'in, an' fired by the passion o' youth, thar wouldn't be no love-feast hyar jest now like this un. No, sirree! Hit'd shore be war a-twixt we-uns—with hell a-poppin' at the end on't fer one, mebby both. But my blood don't git het up now the way hit use' to did. I'm thinkin' fer the widder's sake hit's good ye're younger ner me, an' got more years to give 'er. So, Mr. Jones, when all's said an' done, I'm glad ye come to Guarding Creek."

Then, Uncle Dick, in his turn, displayed some slight symptoms of embarrassment, and cleared his throat in a manner to shock a drawing-room.

"An' now I got jest one leetle favor to ax o' ye, Seth Jones. You-all knows as how the gals in this-hyar kentry air partic'lar proud to have a weddin' ring made from the gold washed out o' the soil in Pleasant Valley by their sweetheart. Wall, I talked a heap 'bout hit to Fanny, an', when she showed signs like she'd give in to me, I went an' panned the gold fer the ring. Fanny'd be right-smart disapp'inted not to have a lover-made ring, I reckon. So, bein' as you-all only got one arm, I wants ye to take this-hyar ring, an' wed her proper with the blessin' an' best wishes o' Uncle Dick Siddon."

He offered the ring, which was gratefully accepted, and the two old men parted on excellent terms.

* * * * *

At eleven o'clock the next morning, Uncle Dick was sitting on the porch, when he saw a horse passing over the trail toward the south. In the saddle was the erect, spruce figure of the one-armed veteran, Seth Jones. And, on a blanket strapped behind the saddle to serve as pillion, rode a woman, with her arms clasped around the man's waist. It was the Widow Brown, dressed all in gala white.

It was, indeed, heigh-ho for the parson!

Uncle Dick stared fixedly until the two had vanished beyond the brow of the hill. Then, at last, he stirred, and his eyes roved over his home and its surroundings wistfully. He sighed heavily. But he himself would have been hard put to it to tell whether that sigh held more of regret, or of relief.



CHAPTER XIV

While her grandfather was still on the porch, and her sister was out of the house, Plutina possessed herself of the new revolver, with its holster, which, after slipping down her gown from the shoulder, she attached under the left arm-pit. The looseness of the ill-fitting garment concealed the weapon effectually enough. For ready access, the upper buttons to the throat were left unfastened, in seeming relief against the heat of midday. Thus equipped, the girl stole out through the back way, unobserved by her relations, to keep tryst with the desperado.

As she followed a blind trail that shortened the distance between the Siddon cabin and the Holloman Gate to a short two miles, Plutina was torturing a brain already overtaxed in the effort to devise some means whereby she might wreck the projects of the villain, without at the same time bringing ruin on herself, or those she loved. Always, however, her thoughts went spinning toward the same vortex of destruction. She could, indeed, contrive nothing better than the policy of cajolery on which she had first determined, and to this course, as it seemed to her, she must cling, though her good sense was well advised of its futility. She knew that a scoundrel of Hodges unrestrained passions could not long be held from his infamous purposes by any art of hers. At the best, she might hope perhaps to delay the catastrophe only by hours. In her discouraged state, she admitted that it would be quite impossible to restrain him until the law should come to her aid. She was determined none the less to employ every resource at her command, in order to postpone decisive action. One thing was at once her chief reliance and her chief source of fear: the outlaw's passion for her. In his brutal fashion, the man loved her. That fact gave her power over him, even while it exposed her to the worst peril at his hands.

The presence of the revolver comforted her mightily. From time to time, she moved her right hand stealthily across her bosom, to reassure a failing courage by feeling the stiff leather of the holster under the gown. She was experienced in the use of weapons. Her rifle had often contributed to the cabin larder. Muscles that knew no tremor and a just eye had given her a skill in marksmanship much beyond the average, even in this region where firearms were forever in the hands of the men, and familiar to the women. Once, her moving fingers felt the little bag hanging from its leathern thong about her neck, in which was the fairy crystal. The hardness of her expression vanished on the instant, and in its stead was a wonderful tenderness. A world of yearning shone in the dark lustres of the eyes, and the curving lips drooped in pathetic wistfulness. Her soul went out toward the distant lover in a very frenzy of desire. She felt the longing well in her, a craving so agonized that nothing else mattered, neither life nor death. Had the power been hers then, she would have summoned him across the void. The loneliness was a visible, tangible monster, beating in upon her, crushing her with hideous, remorseless strength. Her man must come back!

It was the mood of a moment, no more. Even as she thrilled with the anguished longing she lifted her eyes, and halted, aghast at the scene before her. There, close at hand to the southeast, Stone Mountain upreared its huge and rugged bulk. It loomed implacable, with the naked cliffs staring grotesquely. It overhung her like immutable fate, silent, pitiless. There was sinister significance in its aspect, for just before her lay the cavernous shadows of the Devil's Cauldron. The girl's gaze went to the verge of the precipice far above. It followed down the wild tumblings of the little stream, fed from lofty springs. It descended in the last long leap of the waters into the churning pool. And she had a vision of the man she loved, bound, and helpless—dead perhaps, shot from behind—and now thrust out from the verge into the abyss, to go hurtling into the mist-wreathed depths.... No, Zeke must not come back. The hardness crept again into her face, as she went forward. She held her eyes averted from that gruesome cavern high in the mountain's face.

The girl came soon to the Holloman Gate, which swung across the trail near the west end of the mountain. Tall poplars and spruce made an ample shade, but a glance toward the sun showed it at the zenith. She was prompt to the rendezvous; it was the lover who was laggard. She wondered a little at that, but with no lightening of her mood. She was sure that he would come all too speedily. She stood waiting in misery, leaning listlessly against the fence, her gaze downcast. The geranium blossoms touched the sward richly with color; the rhododendrons flaunted the loveliness of their flowering round about the spot. A delicate medley of birds' songs throbbed from out the thickets; a tiny stream purled over its pebbled bed in the ravine that entrenched the trail. Plutina gave no heed. She saw and she heard, but, in this hour, she was without response to any charm of sight or of sound. Yet, that she was alert was proven presently, for her ear caught the faint crackle of a twig snapping. It was a little way off—somewhere along the line of the brush-grown fence, on the same side of the trail. She peered steadily in the direction of the noise. When her eyes became accustomed to the shadows, she made out the figure of a man, crouched in a corner of the fence, behind the screen of a bush. He was no more than three or four rods from her. She was sure even that she recognized him—Gary Hawks, one of the most vicious of the Hodges gang, but notorious for cowardice. She was puzzled for only a moment by the presence of the fellow. Then, she realized that he doubtless was acting under his leader's orders. It was another menace against her own safety. The fingers of her hand went once again for encouragement to the holster beneath her arm.