"Up! Up!" cried Washburn, kicking the saddle out of his way. "Quick! What's the matter?" Westerfelt felt a twinge in his old wound as he tried to mount. Washburn caught one of his legs and lifted him on his horse.

Westerfelt spurred the horse furiously, but the animal plunged, stumbled, and came to his knees—the bridle-rein had caught his foot. The foremost of the gang was now within twenty yards of him.

"Halt thar!" he yelled.

Westerfelt drew his horse up and continued to lash him with his bridle-rein.

"Shoot his hoss, but don't tetch him!" was the next command.

Several revolvers went off. Westerfelt's horse swayed at the rump and then ran sideways across the street and fell against a rail fence. Westerfelt alighted on his feet. He turned and drew his revolver, but just then his horse rolled over against his legs and knocked the weapon from his hand. It struck the belly of the horse and bounded into the middle of the street.

"Ha, we've got ye!" jeered the leader, as he and two or three others covered Westerfelt with their revolvers.



Chapter XIII

The gang formed a semi-circle round Westerfelt and his horse. In their white caps and sheets they appeared ghostly and hideous, as they looked down at him through the eye-holes of their masks. One of them held a coil of new rope and tantalizingly swung it back and forth before his face.

"You must go with us up the Hawkbill fer a little moonlight picnic," he jeered. "We've picked out a tree up thar that leans spank over a cliff five hundred feet from the bottom. Ef the rope broke, ur yore noggin slipped through the noose, you'd never know how come you so."

"He's got to have some'n to ride," suggested another muffled voice; "we have done his horse up."

"Well, he's got a-plenty, an' he won't need 'em atter our ja'nt," jested the man with the rope. "You uns back thar, that hain't doin' nothin' but lookin' purty, go in the stable and trot out some'n fer 'im to ride; doggoned ef I want 'im straddled behind me. His ha'nt 'ud ride with me every time I passed over the Hawkbill."

"Bill Washburn's in thar," said a man in the edge of the crowd. "I seed 'im run in as we rid up."

The leader, who sat on a restive horse near Westerfelt, called out:

"Hello in thar, Bill Washburn; git out some'n to put yore man on. Hurry up, ur we'll take you along to see the fun."

Washburn opened the office door and came out slowly.

"What do you say, Mr. Westerfelt? It's yore property. I won't move a peg agin the man that I work fer ef eve'y dam Whitecap in Christendom orders it."

"Careful, careful, young man; none o' your lip!" said the leader, half admiringly.

"Give 'em the lot!" It was the first time Westerfelt had spoken.

Washburn made no reply, but went slowly back into the stable.

Westerfelt's dying horse raised his head and groaned. A man near the animal dismounted and drew his revolver.

"What d' you say?" said he to Westerfelt. "Hadn't I better put 'im out o' his misery?"

"I'd be much obliged if you would." Westerfelt turned his face away. There was a moment's pause. The man waited for the horse's head to become still. Then he fired.

"Thanks," said Westerfelt. He looked round at the crowd, wondering which of the men could be Toot Wambush. He had an idea that he had not yet spoken, and was not among those nearest to him. Through the open door he could see Washburn's lantern moving about in the stable.

"Hurry up in thar," cried a tall figure. "Do you think we're gwine to—" He began to cough.

"How do you like to chaw cotton, Number Six?" a man near him asked.

"The blamed lint gits down my throat," was the reply. "I'd ruther be knowed by my voice'n to choke to death on sech truck."

From far and near on all sides came the dismal barking of dogs, but the villagers, if they suspected what was being enacted, dared not show their faces. Washburn led a horse through the crowd and gave the bridle to Westerfelt. He hesitated, as if about to speak, and then silently withdrew. Westerfelt mounted. The leader gave the order, and the gang moved back towards the mountain. Two horsemen went before Westerfelt and two fell behind. As they passed the shop, dimly he saw the form of a woman lying on the ground just out of the moonlight that fell in at the door. Harriet had swooned. When they had gone past the shop, Westerfelt reined in his horse and called over his shoulder to Washburn, who stood in front of the stable. He would not leave her lying there if he could help it, and yet he did not want Wambush to know she had warned him. The gang stopped, and Washburn came to them.

"Any directions you want to give?" he asked of Westerfelt.

"I saw you looking for the account-book," answered Westerfelt, staring significantly into his eyes. "I was in the blacksmith's shop to-day and left it on the forge."

Washburn stared blankly at him for an instant, then he said, slowly, "All right."

"You'd better get it to-night," added Westerfelt.

"All right, sir. I'll attend to everything."

"Cool as a cucumber," laughed a man. "Next thing you know he'll give orders 'bout whar he wants to be buried, an' what to have cut on his grave-rock."

The whole gang laughed at this witticism, and started on again. When they had gone about a hundred yards Westerfelt glanced back. He saw Washburn cross the road and enter the blacksmith's shop, and the next instant the shop was hidden by a sudden turn in the road. They passed the meeting-house and began to ascend the mountain. Here and there along the dark range shone the red fires of chestnut harvesters. The blue smoke hung among the pines, and the air was filled with the odor of burning leaves. They passed a camp—a white-covered wagon, filled with bags of chestnuts, two mules tethered to saplings, and three or four forms in dusky blankets lying round a log fire. As the weird procession passed, the mules drew back on their halters and threw their ears forward, but the bodies at the fire did not stir.

In about twenty minutes the band reached a plateau covered with a matting of heather. They went across it to the edge of a high precipice. It was as perpendicular as a wall. Below lay the valley, its forests of pines and cedars looking like a black lake in the clear moonlight.

"Git down, men, an' let's 'tend to business an' go back home," commanded the leader. "I have a hankerin' atter a hot breakfast."

Everybody alighted except Westerfelt. The leader touched him with his whip. "Will you git down, or do you want to be drug off like a saddle?"

"May I ask what you intend to do with me?" asked Westerfelt, indifferently.

The leader laughed. "Put some turkey red calico stripes on that broad back o' yorn, an' rub in some salt and pepper to cuore it up. We are a-gwine to l'arn you that new settlers cayn't run this community an' coolly turn the bluecoats agin us mount'in folks."

Westerfelt looked down on the masks upturned to him. Only one of the band showed a revolver. Westerfelt believed him to be Toot Wambush. He had not spoken a word, but was one of the two that had ridden close behind him up the mountain. One of the white figures unstrapped a pillow from the back part of his saddle. He held it between his knees and gashed it with a knife.

"By hunkey! they're white uns," he grunted, as he took out a handful. "I 'lowed they wus mixed; ef my ole woman knowed I'd tuck a poke uv 'er best goose feathers ter dab on a man she'd get a divorce."

Two or three laughed behind their masks. Another laugh went round as a short figure returned from the bushes with a bucket of tar which had been left near the road-side.

"Heer's yore gumstickum." He dipped a paddle in it and flourished it before Westerfelt, who was still on his horse. "Say, mister, you don't seem inclined to say anything fer yorese'f; the last man we dressed out fer his weddin' begged like a whipped child, an' made no end o' promises uv good behavior."

Westerfelt got down from his horse. "I'm completely in your power," he replied. "I won't beg any man nor gang of men living to give me my rights. I suppose I am accused of having reported those fellows to the revenue men. I have simply to say that it is a lie!"

"Uh, uh!" said the leader; "careful! careful! Don't be reckless. We uns ain't the lyin' sort."

"I say it's a lie!" Westerfelt stared straight into the mask of Toot Wambush. The wearer of it started and half raised his revolver, but quickly concealed it under the sheet that hung below his waist. Everybody was silent, as if they expected a reply from Wambush, but he made none.

"Them pore Cohutta men lyin' in the Atlanta jail said so, anyway," returned the leader. "They ain't heer to speak fer the'rse'ves; it's a easy thing to give them the lie behind the'r backs."

"They were mistaken, that's all," said Westerfelt. "Nobody but the revenue men themselves could tell the whole truth about it. I did pass the wagon—"

"An' eavedropped on our two men. Oh, we know you did, kase they heerd a sound, an' then as you didn't come for'ard, they 'lowed they had made a mistake, but when you finally did pass they knowed it wus you, an' that you'd been listenin'."

"That's the truth," admitted Westerfelt. "I had been warned that it would be dangerous for me to go about in the mountains alone. I heard the men talking, and stopped to find out who they were. I did not want to run into an ambush. As soon as I found out who they were I spoke to them and passed."

"At the stable, though, young man," reminded the leader—"at the stable, when the bluecoats fetched the prisoners an' the plunder in, they told you that they'd found them right whar you said they wus."

"You bet he did. What's the use a-jabberin' any longer?" The voice was unmistakably Wambush's, and his angry tones seemed to fire the impatience of the others. Westerfelt started to speak, but his words were drowned in a tumult of voices.

"Go ahead!" cried several.

"Go ahead! Are you gwine to hold a court an' try 'im by law?" asked Wambush, hotly. "I 'lowed that point was done settled."

Westerfelt calmly folded his arms. "I've no more to say. I see I'm not going to be heard. You are a gang of cold-blooded murderers."

The words seemed to anger the leader.

"Shuck off that coat an' shirt!" was his order.

Westerfelt did not move. "I'm glad to say I'm not afraid of you," he said. "If you have got human hearts in you, though, you'll kill me, and not let me live after the degradation you are going to inflict. I know who's led you to this. It is a cowardly dog who never had a thing against me till I refused to let him have credit at my stable, when he owes an account that's been running for two years. He tried to kill me with a pistol and a knife when I was unarmed. He failed, and had to get you to help him. You are not a bit better than he is. I'm no coward. I've got fighting blood in me. Some of you'd acknowledge it if I was to tell you who my father was. I have reason to believe there are men here to-night who fought side by side with him in the war, and were with him when he was shot down tryin' to hold up the flag at the battle of Chickamauga. One of the dirty cowards he once carried off the field when the whelp could hardly walk with a bullet in his leg!"

"What company wus that?" came from the edge of the crowd. The voice was quivering.

"Forty-second Georgia."

For a moment no one spoke, then the same voice asked:

"Who wus your pa, young man?"

"Captain Alfred Stone Westerfelt, under Colonel Mills."

The tall slender figure of the questioner leaned forward breathlessly and then pushed into the ring. Without a word he stood near Westerfelt, unpinned the sheet that was round him, and slowly took off his mask. Then he put a long forefinger into his mouth, pried a wad of cotton out of each cheek, and threw them on the ground.

It was old Jim Hunter. He cleared his throat, spat twice, wiped his mouth with his hand, and slowly swept the circle with his eyes.

"I'm the feller he toted out," he said. He cleared his throat again, and went on:

"Boys, if thar's to be any whippin', ur tarrin' an' featherin' in this case, I'm agin it tooth an' toe-nail. Cap Westerfelt's boy sha'n't have a hair o' his head fetched on sech flimsy evidence as we've had while I'm alive. You kin think what you please o' me. I've got too much faith in the Westerfelt stock to believe that a branch of it 'u'd spy ur sneak. This is Jim Hunter a-talkin'."

Two others pushed forward, taking off their sheets and masks. They were Joe Longfield and Weston Burks.

"We are t'other two," said Longfield, dryly. "The Yanks killed off too blame many o' that breed o' men fer us to begin to abuse one at this late day. Ef Westerfelt's harmed, it will be over my dead body, an' I bet I'm as hard to kill as a eel."

"Joe's a-talkin' fer me," said Burks, simply, and he put his hand on his revolver.

"We've been too hasty," began Jim Hunter again. "We've 'lowed Toot to inflame our minds agin this man, an' now I'll bet my hat he's innocent. I'd resk a hoss on it."

"Thar's a gal in it, I'm a-thinkin'," opined Weston Burks, dryly.

"Men," cried the leader, "thar's a serious disagreement; we've always listened to Jim Hunter; what must we do about the matter under dispute?"

"Send the man back to town," cried a voice in the edge of the crowd. "He's the right sort to the marrow; I'll give 'im my paw an' wish 'im well."

"That's the ticket!" chimed in the man with the rope, as he tossed it over the horn of his saddle.

"I 'low myself we've been a leetle bit hasty," admitted the leader.

"Put down that gun! Drap it!" cried Jim Hunter, turning suddenly on Toot Wambush. "Ef you dare to cock a gun in this crowd, you'll never live to hear it bang!"

Wambush started to raise his revolver again, but Hunter knocked it from his hand. Wambush stooped to pick it up, but the old man kicked it out of his reach.

"You don't work that trick on this party," he said, hotly.

"I wasn't tryin' to draw it," muttered Wambush.

"You lie!" Then Hunter turned to the leader: "What d'ye think ortter be done with a man like that? Ef I hadn't a-been so quick he'd a shot Westerfelt, an' before the law we'd all a-been accomplices in murderin' a innocent man."

"I move we give the whelp six hours to git out'n the county," said Joe Longfield. "You all know I've been agin Toot."

"That would be too merciful," said Burks.

"Boys," the leader cried, "Wambush has broke a rule in tryin' this thing on us. You've heerd the motion; is thar a second?"

"I second it," said Jim Hunter.

"It's been moved and seconded that Wambush be 'lowed six hours to git clean out o' the county; all in favor say yes."

There was almost a general roar.

"All opposed say no."

No one spoke for a moment, then Wambush muttered something, but no one understood what it was. He turned his horse round and started to mount. He had his left foot in the stirrup, and had grasped the mane of the animal with his right hand, when the leader yelled:

"Hold on thar! Not so quick, sonny. We don't let nobody as sneakin' as you are ride off with a gun in his hip pocket. S'arch 'im, boys; he's jest the sort to fire back on us an' make a dash fer it."

Hunter and Burks closed in on him. Wambush drew back and put his hand behind him.

"Damn you! don't you touch me!" he threatened.

The two men sprang at him like tigers and grasped his arms. Wambush struggled and kicked, but they held him.

"Wait thar a minute," cried the leader; "he don't know when to let well enough alone. You white sperits out thar with the tar an' feathers come for'ard. Wambush ain't satisfied with the garb he's got on."

A general laugh went round. With an oath Wambush threw his revolver on the ground and then his knife. This done, Hunter and Burks allowed him to mount.

"Don't let him go yet," commanded the leader; "look in his saddle-bags."

Wambush's horse suddenly snorted, kicked up his heels, and tried to plunge forward, but Burks clung to the reins and held him.

"He dug his spur into his hoss on this side like thunder," said a man in the crowd. "It's a wonder he didn't rip 'im open."

"S'arch them bags," ordered the leader, "an' ef he makes anuther budge before it's done, or opens his mouth fer a whisper, drag 'im right down an' give 'im 'is deserts."

Wambush offered no further resistance. Hunter fumbled in the bags. He held up a quart flask of corn whiskey over his head, shook it in the moonlight, and then restored it. "I hain't the heart to deprive 'im of that," he said, as he walked round the horse; "he won't find any better in his travels." On the other side he found a forty-four-caliber revolver.

"That 'u'd be a ugly customer to meet on a dark road," he said, holding it up for the others to see. "By hunky! it 'u'd dig a tunnel through a rock mountain. Say, Westerfelt, ef he'd 'a' got a whack at yer with this yore fragments 'u'd never a-come together on the day o' jedgment."

Westerfelt made no reply.

"Now, let 'im go," said the leader. "Ef he dares to be seed anywhar in the Cohutta section six hours frum now he knows what will come uv 'im. We refuse to shelter 'im any longer, an' the officers of the law will take 'im in tow."

The ring of men and horses opened for Wambush to pass out. He said nothing, and did not turn his head as he rode down the mountain into the mysterious haze that hung over the valley.

"What do you say, boys?" proposed Jim Hunter to Longfield and Burks. "Let's ride down the road a piece with Westerfelt."

"All right," both of them said. There was a general scramble of the band to get mounted. Westerfelt got on his horse and started back towards the village, accompanied by the three men. When they had ridden about a hundred yards, Westerfelt said:

"I'm taking you out of your way, gentlemen, and I think I'd rather go alone."

"Well, all right," said Hunter; "but you've got to take my gun. That whelp would resk his salvation to get even with you."

"I know it," said Westerfelt, putting the revolver into his pocket; "but he'll not try it to-night."

"No, I think he's gone fer good," said Longfield. "I guess he'll make fer Texas."

At a point where two roads crossed a few yards ahead of them, Westerfelt parted with the three men. They went back up the mountain, and he rode slowly homeward.

When he was in sight of the stable, he saw Washburn coming towards him on horseback.

"Hello! Did they hurt you, Mr. Westerfelt?" he asked.

"They never touched me."

"My Lord! how was that?"

"I told them I had nothing to do with the arrest; three of them were old friends of my father's, and they believed me. Did you find her—did you find Miss Harriet?"

"Yes; I couldn't make out what you meant 'bout the account-book at first, but I went over to the shop as soon as you all left. She wus lyin' thar on the ground in a dead faint. It took hard work to bring her to."

"You took her home?"

"Not right away; I couldn't do a thing with 'er. She acted like a crazy woman. She screamed an' raged an' tore about an' begged fer a hoss to ride atter you all. She wasn't in no fix to go; she didn't know what she wus about, an' that scamp would a-shot 'er. I believe on my soul he would."

They had reached the stable and dismounted, but neither moved to go in.

"I reckon you ought to know the truth, Washburn, since you saw her there so late at night," said Westerfelt, hesitatingly. "The fact is, she came to warn me. I suppose she knew Wambush would try to kill me, and she didn't want to—"

"She don't keer a snap for Wambush, ef that's what you mean," said Washburn, when he saw that Westerfelt was going no farther. "I know it's been the talk, an' she no doubt did like him a little at one time, but the' ain't but one man livin' she keers fer now. It ain't none o' my business—I'm no hand to meddle, but I know women! She kep' cryin' an' sayin' that they'd murder you, an' ef they did she'd kill Toot Wambush ur die in the attempt. I'm tellin' you a straight tale."

Westerfelt sat down in a chair at the side of the door. Washburn led the horse into the stable and put him into a stall. Then he came back. Westerfelt's hands were over his face, but he took them down when he heard Washburn's step.

"Did—did she hurt herself when she fell?" he asked.

"No, she's all right." Washburn hesitated a moment, then he added: "Mr. Westerfelt, you ought to go up to yore room an' try to rest some; this night's been purty rough on you atter bein' down in bed so long."

Westerfelt rose silently and went through the office and up the stairs.



Chapter XIV

The dawn was breaking when Harriet Floyd stole up to her room under the slant of the roof. She had no idea of trying to sleep. She sat down on the side of the bed, shivering with cold. Through the small-paned dormer window the gray light fell, bringing into vague relief the different objects in the room. Down in the back yard the chickens were flapping their wings and crowing lustily. Through the dingy glass she could see the cow-lot, the sagging roof of the wagon-shed, the barn, the ricks of hay, and the bare branches of the apple-trees still holding a few late apples. Her shoes were wet with dew and her dress and shawl hung limply about her.

There was a sudden step in the hall; a hand touched the latch; the door opened cautiously.

"Harriet!"

"Yes, mother."

Mrs. Floyd glided across the floor, sat down on the bed by her daughter, and stared at her in wonder.

"Where on earth have you been? I have been watching for you all night. Oh, my child, what is the matter? What has gone wrong?"

"I have been out trying to save Mr. Westerfelt. Toot led the Regulators down an' they took him out. I warned him, but he would not go in time and they took him to the mountain."

"Good Heavens! what did they intend to do with him?"

"Most of them meant only to frighten him and to whip him, but Toot Wambush will kill him if he gets a chance."

"I don't believe they'll harm him," said Mrs. Floyd, consolingly. "Anyway, we can't do anything; get in bed and let me cover you up; you are damp to the skin and all of a quiver; you'll catch your death sitting here."

Mrs. Floyd put her hand round Harriet, but she sprang up and pulled down a heavy cloak from a hook on the wall.

"I did not come here to go to bed!" she cried. She put the garment on and strode past her mother to the window. Mrs. Floyd followed her movements with an anxious glance. At the window Harriet turned and stamped her foot. "Do you think I'm going to bed when I don't know—oh, my God, I can't bear it! I can't bear it!" She suddenly approached her bewildered mother, put her hands on her shoulders, and turned her face to the light. "You hear me, mother? As God in Heaven is my witness, if a hair of that man's head is harmed to-night, I'll kill Toot Wambush on sight. I'll kill him, if I hang for it! I swear it before God! Do you hear? I swear it—no power on earth shall stop me! I'll do it!"

Her body swayed. She made a step towards the door and sank down in a swoon. Mrs. Floyd sprang for a pitcher of water and sprinkled her face. The girl revived a little, and her mother raised her in her arms, put her on the bed, and drew the covers over her. Harriet closed her eyes drowsily. She did not seem wholly conscious. Mrs. Floyd went down-stairs and lighted a fire in the kitchen stove, and put on some water to heat. Then she went to the cook's room off the back porch and shook the door.

"Get up quick, Em', Harriet is sick!" she cried; then she ran up to her own room, opposite Harriet's, and finished dressing herself. As she was crossing the hall she saw a man on horseback in the street. She went out on the veranda and called to him. At first she did not recognize him, but when he came nearer she saw that it was Washburn.

"Are you going to help Mr. Westerfelt?" she asked, in a low tone, as she leaned over the railing.

"I've done all that kin be done," he said. "I've been round among the citizens. They all say we'd be fools to try to do anything, Mrs. Floyd. Some are skeerd to death, an' others pretend they don't think Mr. Westerfelt's in danger."

She did not answer, fearing her voice would rouse Harriet, and after he had ridden away, she went back to the girl's room. Harriet was asleep, so she left her. A few hours later the barkeeper's wife came into the kitchen and told Mrs. Floyd the latest news. She dropped the pan she was cleaning and eagerly ran up to Harriet.

The noise of the opening door roused the girl. She sat up, stared in a dazed way at her mother an instant, then threw off the coverings and sprang out of bed.

"I've been asleep; Mr. Westerfelt! Oh, mother, why did you let me—"

"He's all right!" interrupted Mrs. Floyd. "They didn't touch a hair of his head." Harriet stared open-mouthed.

"He's back safe and sound," went on Mrs. Floyd; "he proved himself innocent and they let 'im go."

"Oh, mother, mother!" Harriet put her arms round the old woman's neck and clung to her. "Thank God! Oh, mother, thank God—thank God!" Then she sat down in a chair and began hastily to put on her shoes.

"What are you going to do?"

"Going to see him."

"Not now; why—"

"I will see him. Let me alone; don't try to stop me!"

"You surely would not go to the stable! He—"

"I'd go anywhere to see him. I don't care what people say; I'm going to see him."

As Harriet bent to fasten her shoes, Mrs. Floyd touched her.

"Daughter, are you engaged to Mr. Westerfelt?"

Harriet did not look up. She still bent over her shoes, but the strings lay motionless in her fingers.

"No, he intimated he couldn't marry me, on—on account of my misfortune. Oh, don't let's talk about it. He and I understand each other. He loves me, but we're not engaged."

Mrs. Floyd leaned against the mantel-piece. Her face had become hard and stern. Harriet started to leave the room, but Mrs. Floyd suddenly stepped between her and the door.

"He intimated that that would keep him from marrying you? My Lord—the coward!"

"Mother, don't—don't say that!"

"I thought he was a man! Why, he is lower than a brute."

Harriet disengaged herself from her mother's grasp, and passed on to the door. She turned on the threshold.

"I have no time to quarrel with you about him," she said, with a sigh; "you can have your opinion, nothing on earth will change mine. He loves me. I am going to see him now, and nothing you can say or do will prevent me."

Her shoes rattled loosely on the bare floor and on the stairs as she went down to the street.

During the night the sycamore-trees had strewn the ground with half-green, half-yellow leaves, and the tops of the fences were white with frost. Martin Worthy was taking down the shutters at the store and calling through the window to his wife, who was unscrewing them on the inside. A farmer had left his team in front of the bar, and she saw him taking his morning drink at the counter and heard Buck Hillhouse giving him an exaggerated report of the visit of the Whitecaps. The eastern sky was yellowing, and a peak of the tallest mountain cut a brown gash in the coming sunlight. At the fence in front of Bufford Webb's cottage a cow stood lowing for admittance, and a milking-pail hung on the gate.

As Harriet passed, Mrs. Webb came out with a bucket of "slop" for the pig in a pen near the fence. She rested it on the top rail to speak to Harriet, but the hungry animal made such a noise that she hastened first to empty the vessel into the trough.

"Good-morning," she said, going quickly to the gate and wiping her hands on her apron; "did you-uns heer the racket last night?"

"Yes," answered Harriet.

"I didn't sleep a wink. We could see 'em frum the kitchen winder. It's a outrage, but I'm glad they did no rail harm."

The girl passed on. She found Washburn in front of the stable oiling a buggy. He had placed a notched plank under an axle and was rapidly twirling a wheel.

"Where is Mr. Westerfelt?" she asked.

He raised his eyes to the window in the attic. "Up thar lyin' down. He's not in bed. He jest threw hisself down without undressing."

"Is he asleep?"

"I don't know, Miss Harriet, but I think not."

"Did they hurt him last night, Mr. Washburn?"

"Why, no, Miss Harriet, not a single bit."

She caught her breath in relief. "I thought maybe they had, and that he was not going to acknowledge it. Are—are you sure?"

"As sure as I could be of anything, Miss Harriet; I believe he is a truthful man, an' he told me they didn't lay the weight of a finger on 'im. You kin go up an' ax 'im. He ain't asleep; he looked too worried to sleep when he got back. He walked the floor the balance o' the night. Seems to me he's been through with enough to lay out six common men."

Harriet did not answer. She turned into the office and went up the stairs to Westerfelt's room. Round her was a dark, partially floored space containing hay, fodder, boxes of shelled corn, piles of corn in the husk, and bales of cotton-seed meal. She rapped on the door-facing, and, as she received no response, she called out:

"Mr. Westerfelt, come out a minute."

She heard him rise from his bed, and in a moment he stood in the doorway.

"Oh, it's you!" he cried, in a glad voice. "I was afraid you were not well. I—"

"I am all right," she assured him. "But I simply couldn't rest till I saw you with my own eyes. When I heard they let you off I was afraid it was a false report. Sometimes, when those men do a bad thing they try to cover it up. Oh, Mr. Westerfelt, I am so—so miserable!"

He caught her hands and tried to draw her into his room out of the draught which came up the stairs, but she would not go farther than the door.

"No, I must hurry back home" she said. "Mother did not want me to come anyway; she didn't think it looked right, but I was so—so worried."

"I understand." He was feasting his eyes on hers; it was as if their hunger could never be appeased. "Oh, I'm so glad you come I've had you on my mind—"

But she interrupted him suddenly. Looking round at the bleak room and its scant furniture, she said: "I—I thought may be I could persuade you now to come back to your room at the hotel, where mother and I could wait on you. You do not look as well as you did, Mr. Westerfelt."

He smiled and shook his head.

"It's mighty good of you to ask me," he returned, "but this is good enough for me, and I don't want to be such a bother. The Lord knows I was enough trouble when I was there."

A look of sharp pain came upon her sensitive face for an instant, then she said; "I wish you wouldn't talk that way; you weren't one bit of trouble."

He looked away from her. He was, indeed, not at his best. His beard had grown out on his usually clean-shaven face and his cheeks looked sallow and sunken. He was tingling all over with a raging desire to throw his arms about her and tell her how he loved her and longed to make her his wife, but suddenly a mind-picture of Toot Wambush rose before him. He saw her deliberately lying to the officers to save him from arrest, and—worse than all—he saw her in the arms of the outlaw's father sobbing out a confession of her love. He told himself then, almost in abject terror of some punishment held over him by God Himself, that Mrs. Dawson's prayers would be answered—if—if he gave way. "No," he commanded himself, "I shall stand firm. She's not for me, though she may love me—though she does love me now and would wipe out the past with her life. A woman as changeable as that would change again." Then a jealous rage flared up within him, and he laid a threatening hand on either of her shoulders and glared into her eyes.

"I told you last night I'd never bring up a certain subject again, but—"

"Then you'd better not," she said, so firmly, so vindictively, that his tongue was stilled. "I came here out of kindness; don't you dare—don't you insult me again, Mr. Westerfelt."

"Oh, do forgive me! I—" But she had shaken off his hands and moved nearer the stairway.

"You made a promise last night," she reminded him, "and I did not dream you had so little respect for me as to break it so soon."

He moved towards her, his hands outstretched imploringly, but a sound from below checked him. Some one was speaking to Washburn in the office. Then footsteps were heard on the stairs, and Mrs. Bradley, followed by Luke, waddled laboriously up the steps. She was wiping her eyes, which were red from weeping. She glanced in cold surprise at Harriet, and passing her with only a nod, went to Westerfelt and threw her arms around his neck. Then with her head on his breast she burst into fresh tears.

"You pore, motherless, unprotected boy," she sobbed. "I can't bear it a bit longer. Me 'n' Luke wus the cause o' yore comin' to this oncivilized place anyway, an' you've been treated wuss 'an a dog. Ef Luke had one speck o' manhood left in him, he'd—"

Bradley advanced from the door, and drew his wife away from Westerfelt.

"Don't act so daddratted foolish," he said. "No harm hain't been done yet—no serious harm." Still holding her hand, he turned to Westerfelt; "They've tried to do you dirt, John, I know, but them boys will be the best friends on earth to you now. Ef you ever want to run fer office all you got to do is to announce yorese'f. Old Hunter wus down at Bill Stone's this mornin' as we passed buyin' his fine hoss to replace yore'n."

"I reckon they've run Toot Wambush clean off," put in Mrs. Bradley, looking significantly at Harriet. She expected the girl to reply, but Harriet only avoided her glance. Mrs. Bradley rubbed her eyes again, put her handkerchief into her pocket, and critically surveyed the damp, bedraggled dress of the girl.

"It's mighty good of you to come down to see 'im all by yourself so early," she said; "some gals wouldn't do sech a thing. The report is out that you notified John of what the band intended to do."

Harriet nodded, and looked as if she wanted to get away.

"It wus mighty good of you, especially as you an' Toot are sech firm friends," went on Mrs. Bradley; "but it's a pity you wusn't a little sooner with yore information."

"She told me in plenty of time," corrected Westerfelt. "It was my fault that I didn't get away. I didn't go when Miss Harriet told me to."

His reply did not please Mrs. Bradley, as she showed by her next remark. "I'd think you'd be afeerd o' makin' Toot madder at you 'n he already is," she said to Harriet.

The girl did not look at her. She was watching Westerfelt, who had suddenly moved to the bed and sat down. When she spoke she directed her explanation to Bradley rather than to his wife.

"Mother and I thought Mr. Westerfelt ought not to stay here alone, and that we'd get him to come over to the room he had in the hotel; so we—"

"You an' yore mother hain't knowed 'im sence he wus knee-high like me an' Luke has," jealously retorted Mrs. Bradley. "I reckon it's time we wus givin' the boy a little attention. We've got the buggy down thar waitin', John, an' a hot breakfast ready at home. I won't stand no refusal. You jest got to come with us; you needn't make no excuse."

"I'm not sick," answered Westerfelt, with a faint smile. He glanced at Harriet. With an unsteady step she was moving away. He wanted to call to her, but the presence of the others sealed his lips. She turned out into the semi-darkness of the loft, and then they heard her descending the stairs.

The sun was rising as she went back to the hotel. No one was in the parlor. She entered it and closed the door after her. She drew up the window-shade and looked down the street till she saw Mrs. Bradley and Westerfelt pass in a buggy. Then she went into the dining-room, where a servant was laying a cloth on a long table, took down a stack of plates from a shelf, and began to put them in their places.

When breakfast was over that morning Westerfelt went back to the stable. While sitting in the office. Long Jim Hunter came to the door leading a fine bay horse, a horse that Westerfelt recognized at a glance as one he had seen and admired before.

"Oh, Mr. Westerfelt," he called out over Washburn's shoulder, who had gone to him. "I wish you'd step heer a minute. I know you don't do the rough work round heer, but I like to have my dealings with the head of a shebang. Wash, heer, never did have much more sense 'n a chinch, nohow."

"What can I do for you, Mr. Hunter?" asked the man addressed, coming out.

There was a decidedly sheepish look in the old man's face, and he swung the halter of the horse awkwardly to and fro.

"Well, you see, it's jest this way, Westerfelt," he began, with an effort. "I've bought this blamed hoss frum Bill Stone an' I want to leave 'im heer with you. I want you to put 'im through any sort o' work you see fit; he's too blam' fat an' frisky anyhow."

Westerfelt comprehended the whole situation, but he did not want to accept the horse. "Why, Mr. Hunter, really—" he began.

"Oh, we'll take yore hoss," laughed Washburn. "We kin take the kinks out'n his mane an' tail an' make 'im wish he never wus born. Oh, Lordy, yes, we want 'im, an' ef you've got a good saddle an' bridle ur a buggy hustle 'em around."

"Well, you'd better 'tend to 'im." Hunter tossed the halter to Washburn. "I'll be blamed ef I want 'im." And he turned and without another word walked away.

"It's wuth three o' the one they shot," was Washburn's laconic observation. He looked the animal over admiringly and slapped him so vigorously under the belly that the horse grunted and humped his back.

Cartwright, like nearly every other Georgian village, had its lawyer. Bascom Bates was a young man of not more than thirty, but he was accounted shrewd by many older legal heads, who had been said to have advised him to move to a larger place. When business did not come to his office, Bates sometimes went after it. If a woman lost a husband in a railway wreck or was knocked off the track where he had no right to be, Bates called as early as possible and offered to direct a suit against the corporation for damages at half the usual price—that is, as Bill Stone once put it, the widow got half and Bates half, which nobody seemed to think exorbitant, because it cost a lawyer a good deal to get his education, and court convened but twice a year. He was among the first to call on Westerfelt that morning, and with a mysterious nod and crooking of his fingers in the air he induced the young man to follow him into one of the vacant stalls in the back part of the long building.

"Thar's something that has jest struck me, Westerfelt," he began, in the low voice of an electioneering candidate, and he possessed himself of one of Westerfelt's lapels and began to rub his thick, red fingers over it. "I wouldn't have you mention me in the matter, for really I hain't got a thing ag'in any of these mountain men, but I thought I'd say to you as a friend that this is a damageable case. Them men could be handled for what they done last night, and made to sweat for it—sweat hard cash, as the feller said."

Westerfelt stared at him in surprise.

"Oh," he said, "I never thought of that. I—"

"Well, there ain't no harm in looking at the thing from all sides," broke in the lawyer, as deliberately as his professional eagerness would permit. "A good price could be made out of the ring-leaders anyway. Old Jim Hunter's got two hundred acres o' bottom land as black as that back yard out thar, an' it's well stocked, an' I know all the rest o' the gang an' their ability to plank up. Maybe it wouldn't even get as far as court. Them fellers would pay up rather than be published all over creation as—"

Westerfelt drew back, smiling. He did not really dislike Bates, and he attributed his present proposition to the desire to advance in his profession, but he was far from falling into the present proposal.

"I haven't the slightest intention of prosecuting, Mr. Bates," he declared, firmly. "In fact, nothing could persuade me to take a single step in that direction."

The face of the lawyer fell.

"Oh, that's the way you feel. Well," scratching his chin, "I don't know as it makes much difference one way or the other, but I hope, Mr. Westerfelt, that you won't mention what I said. These fellers are the very devil about boycottin' people."

"It shall go no further," answered Westerfelt, and together they walked to the front. A few minutes after Bates had gone across the street to his office, old Hunter slouched into the stable and stood before Westerfelt. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in Bates's direction and grinned uneasily. Then he spat, and delivered himself of this:

"I'll bet I kin make a powerful good guess at what that feller wanted to see you about."

Westerfelt smiled good-naturedly. He felt irresistibly drawn towards the old man.

"Do you think you could, Mr. Hunter?"

"I'd bet a ten-acre lot agin a ginger-cake. An' I'll bet some'n else; I'll bet ten dollars 'gin a nickel that Cap. Westerfelt's boy ain't a-gwine to harbor no ill-will agin one o' his daddy's old friends that wus actin' the damn fool 'fore he knowed who he wus monkeyin' with."

"You'd win on that bet, Mr. Hunter," and Westerfelt gave the old man his hand.

Hunter's shook as with palsy as he grasped and held it. Tears rose in his eyes. "Lord, Lord A'mighty!" he said, "when I reecolect that the young chap 'at stood up thar so spunky all by hisse'f last night, in that moonlight an' sassed all of us to our teeth was Cap. Westerfelt's boy—by God, I jest want some hound dog to come an' take my place on God's earth—so I do. I want some able-bodied cornfield nigger to wear a hickory-withe out on my bare back." Then he dropped Westerfelt's hand and strode away.



Chapter XV

Westerfelt accepted the urgent invitation of the Bradleys to live in their house awhile. For the first week his wound gave him pain and his appetite failed him, which was due as much, perhaps, to mental as bodily trouble, for Harriet Floyd was on his mind constantly. Thoroughly disgusted with himself for having in the past treated the hearts of women lightly, he now drew the rein of honor tightly when he thought of his position and hers. He told himself he would never go to see her again till he had made up his mind to forget her love for Wambush and every rasping fact pertaining to it, and honorably ask her to be his wife. There were moments in which he wondered if she were not, on her part, trying to forget him, and occasionally, when his spirits sank lowest, he actually harbored the fear that her affection might already have returned to Wambush. He recalled something he had once heard that a woman would love a man who was unfortunate more surely than one who was not, and this thought almost drove him mad with jealousy, for was she not likely, through pity, to send her heart after the exile? Now and then, in passing the hotel, he caught a glimpse of Harriet on the veranda or at the window, but she always turned away, as if she wished to avoid meeting him, and this pained him, too, for she had become his very life, and such cold encounters were like permanent steps towards losing her forever, which, somehow, had never quite shaped itself into a possibility in his mind.

It was a warm day in the middle of November, Westerfelt and Washburn stood at the stable waiting for the hack, which, once a day, brought the mail and passengers from Darley. It had come down the winding red clay road and stopped at the hotel before going on to the stable.

"I see a woman on the back seat," remarked Washburn. "Wonder why she didn't git out at the hotel."

In a moment the hack was in front of the stable, and Budd Ridly, the driver, had sprung down and was helping a woman out on the opposite side. When she had secured her shawl and little carpet-bag, she walked round the hack and came towards Westerfelt.

It was Sue Dawson. She wore the same black cotton bonnet and gown, now faded and soiled, that she had worn at her daughter's funeral.

"Howdy' do?" she said, giving him the ends of her fingers, and resting her carpet-bag on her hip. "I 'lowed you'd be glad to see me." There was a malicious gleam in her little blue eyes, and her withered face was hard and pale and full of desperate purpose.

"How do you do?" he replied.

She smiled as she slowly scrutinized him.

"Well, you don't look as if you wus livin' on a bed of ease exactly," she said, in a tone of satisfaction; "you've been handled purty rough, I reckon, fer a dandified feller like you, but—" She stopped suddenly and glanced at Washburn, who was staring at her in surprise, then went on: "Budd Ridly couldn't change a five-dollar bill, an' he 'lowed I might settle my fare with the proprietor uv the shebang. Don't blame Budd; I tol' 'im I wus well acquainted with the new stableman; an' I am, I reckon, ef anybody is. I had business over heer," she went on, as she got out her old-fashioned pocket-book and fumbled it with trembling fingers. "I couldn't attend to it by writin'; some'n's gone wrong with the mails; it looks like I cayn't git no answers to the letters I write."

Washburn took the money and went into the office for the change.

"I didn't see what good it would do to write, Mrs. Dawson," said Westerfelt; "maybe it was wrong for me not to, but I've had a lot to bear; and you—"

"That you have," she interrupted, her face hardening, as she looked across the ploughed fields, bordered by strips of yellow broom-sedge, towards the pine forests in the west. "You wus cut bad, I heer, an' laid up fer a week ur so, an' then the skeer them Whitecaps give you on top of it must a' been awful to a proud sperit like yore'n; but even sech as that will wear off in time. But nothin' human, John Westerfelt—nothin' human kin fetch back the dead. Sally's place is unoccupied. I'm doin' her work every day, an' her dressin' an' pore little Sunday fixin's is all still a-hangin' on the wall. She wus the only gal—"

Washburn came back with the change. The old woman's thin hands quivered as she took the coin and slowly counted the pieces into her pocket-book, Washburn suspected from the expression of Westerfelt's face that the conversation was of a private nature, so he went out to the hack to help Budd unharness the horses.

"No," went on the old woman, sternly, "you've brought about a pile o' misery in yore life, John Westerfelt, an' you hain't a-gwine to throw it off like a ol' coat, an' dance an' make merry. You may try that game; but yore day is over; you already bear the mark of it in yore face an' sunk cheeks. You've got another gal on yore string by this time, too."

"You are mistaken, Mrs. Dawson."

"How about the one at the hotel that nussed you through yore sick spell?"

"There is nothing between us." He hesitated, then added: "Nothing at all, nor there never will be."

"You say thar hain't, but that don't prove it. I want to lay eyes on her; I can tell ef you have been up to yore old tricks when I see 'er. Ef she's got a purty face you have."

He made no reply.

She hitched her burden up on her left hip and curved her body to the right. "I'm a-gwine to put up thar, an' I'll see. The Bradleys 'll think quar ef I don't put up with them, I reckon; but I'm gwine to try hotellin' fer once. Right now it's in my line uv business. Good-mornin'; I don't owe you anything—nothin' in the money way, I mean. Ah! you think I'm a devil, I reckon; well, you made me what I am. I'm yore work, John Westerfelt!"

He stood in the stable door and watched the little bent figure walk away. He saw her pass the cottages, the store, the bar, and enter the hotel; then he went through the stable into the back yard and stood against the wall in the warm sunlight. He didn't want Washburn to come to him just then with any questions about business. A sudden, startling fear had come to him. He was going to lose Harriet now, and through Mrs. Dawson, and it would be the just consequences of his early indiscretion.



Chapter XVI

As the old woman entered the hotel she saw no one. Looking into the parlor, and seeing it empty, she went down the hall to the rear of the house. The door of the dining-room was open. Mrs. Floyd was there arranging some jars of preserves in the cupboard, and turned at the sound of the slip-shod feet.

"Good-morning," Mrs. Floyd said; "won't you have a seat?"

Mrs. Dawson put her shawl and carpetbag on a chair. "I want to put up heer to-night," she said. "I never put up at a tavern in my life, an' I'm a sorter green hand at it. I reckon you could tell that by lookin' at me."

"We are pretty full," said Mrs. Floyd; "but we will manage to make a place for you somehow. My daughter will show you a room. Oh, Harriet!"

"Yes, mother." Harriet came in from the kitchen. She had overheard the conversation. Mrs. Dawson eyed her critically and slowly from head to foot.

"This lady wants to stop with us," said Mrs. Floyd; "show her to the little room upstairs."

Harriet took the carpet-bag. "Do you want to go up now?"

"I reckon I mought as well."

Harriet preceded her to a little room at the head of the stairs. The girl was drawing up the window-shade to let light into the room when the old woman spoke. "You are the gal that nussed John Westerfelt through his spell, I reckon," she said.

Harriet turned to her in surprise. "Yes, he was with us," she replied. "Do you know him?"

"A sight better 'n you do, I'm a-thinkin'," Mrs. Dawson seated herself, took off her bonnet, and began nervously folding it on her knee. "But not better 'n you will, ef you don't mind what yo're about."

Harriet flushed in mingled embarrassment and anger. Without replying, she started to leave the room, but Mrs. Dawson caught the skirt of her dress and detained her.

"You don't know who I am. I had a daughter—"

"I know all about it." Harriet jerked her skirt from the old woman's hand and looked angrily into her face. "She drowned herself because he didn't love her. I do know who you are; you are a devil disguised as a woman! He may have caused your daughter's death, but he did not do it intentionally, but you—you would murder him in cold blood if you could. You have come all the way over here to drive him to desperation. You—you are a bad woman. I mean it!"

For a moment Mrs. Dawson was thrown entirely off her guard by the unexpected attack. She rose and stretched out a quivering hand for her carpet-bag, which she had put on the bed. She shifted it excitedly from one hand to the other, and looked towards the door.

"Yo're jest one more uv his fool victims, I kin see that," she gasped. "He's the deepest, blackest scoundrel on the face of the earth!"

Harriet's eyes flashed. "He's the best man I ever saw, and has had more to put up with. You've come over here to persecute him; but you sha'n't stay in this house. Get right out; we don't want you!"

"Why, Harriet, what on earth do you mean?" exclaimed Mrs. Floyd, suddenly entering the room.

Harriet pointed at Mrs. Dawson. "This woman has come over here to worry the life out of Mr. Westerfelt because he didn't marry her daughter. She wrote threatening letters to him while he was at death's door, and is doing her best now to drive him crazy. She sha'n't stay under this roof while I am here. You know I mean exactly what I say, mother. She goes or I do. Take your choice!"

"Mr. Westerfelt has had a lot of trouble," began Mrs. Floyd, wondering what it could all be about; "everybody here is in sympathy with him. We are all liable to mistakes; surely you can pardon him if—"

"Not while I'm above ground," shrieked the old woman. She dropped her bag, then picked it up awkwardly, and started to leave by a door which opened into another room. She burst into hysterical weeping when Mrs. Floyd caught her arm to detain her. "Not while I'm alive an' have my senses," she went on, in sobs and piping tones. "I'll hound him to his grave. I wouldn't stay heer over night to save my life. I'd ruther sleep in a hay-stack ur in a barn-loft."

Harriet turned her white, rigid face to the window, and stood between the parted curtains as still as a statue. Mrs. Floyd tried again to detain the old woman, but she flounced out of the room and thumped down-stairs.

The next morning a young girl came into the village by one of the mountain roads. Her face was sad and troubled, and she looked as if she had walked a long distance. She was poorly dressed, and her shoes were coarse and coated with dust, but her face was pretty and sweet.

In front of the meeting-house she stopped and sat down on a log near the road-side. When people passed she would draw her sun-bonnet over her face and turn her head from them. Suddenly she rose and trudged on to the post-office.

It was a busy day at Cartwright, and the little porch was filled with loungers. Old Jim Hunter was there with his long-barrelled rifle and a snarling opossum, the tail of which was held between the prongs of a split stick. When the animal showed a disposition to bite anybody, or crawl away, he subdued it instantly by turning the stick and twisting its tail. Joe Longfield had come with a basket of eggs packed in cotton-seed to exchange for their value in coffee, and the two wags were entertaining the crowd with jokes at the expense of each other.

As the girl passed into the store Martin Worthy was weighing a pail of butter for a countryman in a slouch hat and a suit of brown jeans. She returned his nod and went to the little pen in the corner in which the mail was kept.

"I cayn't 'low you but ten cents a pound for yore butter," Worthy said to the man. "Yore women folks never will work the water out, an' it's al'ays puffy an' white. Town people don't want sech truck. It has to be firm and yaller. Look what the Beeson gals fetch once a week. I gladly pay 'em fifteen fer it." He uncovered a pile of firm golden balls and struck them with his paddle. "Any woman can make sech butter ef they won't feed the cows cotton-seed an' will take 'nough trouble."

When the man had joined the group outside, Worthy came from behind the counter into the pen, wiping his hands on a sheet of brown paper.

"I don't think thar's a thing fer any o' yore folks, Miss Hettie," he said to the girl, "but I'll look jest to satisfy you." He took a bundle of letters from a pigeon-hole and ran them hurriedly through his hands. "Not a thing," he concluded, putting the letters back; "jest as I thought."

She paused for a moment as if about to ask a question. She put a thin hand on the cover of a sugar-barrel, and looked at him timidly from the depths of her bonnet as he came out of the pen, but she said nothing. As she started to go, her skirt caught on a sliver of the barrel, and, as she stooped to unfasten it, she almost fell forward. But she recovered herself and went out of the door towards the hitching-rack in front, paused, and looked back at the road over which she had come.

"Don't seem to know exactly whar she does want to go," remarked Jim Hunter, breaking the silence which had followed her departure from the store. "Who is she, anyway?"

"Oz Fergerson's daughter Hettie," replied Worthy, leaning against the door-jamb. "She don't look overly well; I reckon that's why she quit workin' at the hotel. She's dyin' to git a letter from some'rs; she comes reg'lar every day an' goes away powerfully disappointed."

"Never seed her before as I know of," said Longfield, handing Worthy his basket of eggs.

The girl suddenly turned down the sidewalk. She passed Mrs. Webb's cottage and the bar and went into the hotel. Mrs. Floyd met her at the door.

"Mis' Floyd, I want to see Harriet," she said.

"She's up-stairs," replied Mrs. Floyd. "I'll call her; but you'd better go in to the fire."

The girl shook her head and muttered something Mrs. Floyd could not understand, so she left her in the hall.

Mrs. Floyd found Harriet in her room. "Hettie Fergerson is down-stairs and wants to see you," she said. "She still acts very strange. I asked her to go into the parlor, but she wouldn't."

"How do you do, Hettie?" said Harriet, as she came down the steps. "Come into the parlor; you look cold."

The girl hesitated, but finally followed Harriet into the warm room. They sat down before the fire, and there was an awkward silence for several minutes, then the visitor suddenly pushed back her bonnet and said, in a hard, desperate tone:

"Where is Toot Wambush, Harriet?"

Harriet looked at her in surprise for an instant, then she answered:

"Why, Hettie, how could I know? Nobody in Cartwright does now, I reckon."

"I thought you might." Both girls were silent for a moment, then the visitor looked apprehensively over her shoulder at the door. "Is yore ma coming in here?"

"No; she's busy in the kitchen; do you want to see her?"

"No." The girl spoke quickly and moved uneasily.

"You came to see me?"

"I come to see somebody—oh, Harriet, I'm so miserable! You didn't suspicion it, Harriet, but I'm afraid that man has made a plumb fool of me. I haven't slept hardly one wink since they driv' 'im off. I—" She put her hand to her eyes, and as she paused Harriet thought she was crying, but a moment later, when she removed her hand, her eyes were dry.

"Why did you come to—to see me, Hettie?" questioned Harriet.

"Because," was the slow-coming reply, "I thought maybe he had wrote back to you."

"He has never written to me, Hettie—never a line."

The face of the girl brightened. "Then you ain't engaged to him, are you, Harriet?"

"The idea! of course not."

"Oh, I'm mighty glad of that," exclaimed the visitor. "You see, I'm such a fool about him I got jealous. Oh, Harriet, there ain't no use in me tryin' to deceive myself; I know he would marry you at the drop of a hat if you'd have him. I know that, and still I am crazy about him. I ain't much to blame, Harriet, if I am foolish. He made me so, an' 'most any pore, lonely girl like I am would care for a good-looking man like he is. Oh, Harriet, it is awfully humiliating to have to think it, but I believe the reason he treats me like he does is that I showed him too plainly how much I loved him."

"I did not suspect till the other day," said Harriet, to avoid that point, "that he was paying you any particular attention. Mother told me he often drove you out home."

"Oh, la, that ain't a circumstance, Harriet! He used to come out home mighty nigh every day or night. Pa an' ma think he is a regular prince. You know he swore pa out of a big whiskey scrape in Atlanta, and since then pa and him has been mighty thick. They thought all along that Toot wanted to marry me, and it made 'em mighty proud, and then it began to look like he was settin' up to you. That's why I quit staying here, Harriet. I couldn't be around you so much and know—or think, as I did, that he was beginning to love you."

"I don't think," protested Harriet, "that he was ever deeply interested in me. You must not think that. In fact, I believe now, Hettie, that you and he will be happily married some day—if he ever gets out of his trouble."

Hettie drew in her breath quickly and held it, raising a glad glance to the speaker's face.

"Why do you think so, Harriet?—oh, you are just saying this to make me feel better."

Harriet deliberated for a moment, then she said: "He was here the night they run him off—the night they all took Mr. Westerfelt out. Mother and I had a long talk with him. Mother talked straight to him about flirting with you, and told him what a good, nice girl you were, and—"

"Oh, did she, Harriet? I could hug her for it!"

"Yes, and he talked real nice about you, too, and admitted he had acted wrong. Hettie, I believe in time that he'll come back and ask you to marry him. I believe that in the bottom of my heart."

The countenance of the visitor was now aglow with hope.

"Maybe he will—maybe he will," she said. "I was afraid I let him see too plain that I was a fool about him, but some men like that, I reckon; he always seemed to come oftener. Harriet, one thing has worried the life nearly out of me. I heard Frank Hansard say a young man never would think as much of a girl after she let him kiss her. I'm no hypocrite—I'm anything else; but as much as I'd love to have a young man I cared for kiss me, I'd die in my tracks before I'd let 'im put his arm around me if I thought it would make 'im think less of me. Do you reckon" (she was avoiding Harriet's eyes)—"do you think that would make any difference with Toot—I mean, with any young man?"

Harriet smiled in spite of the look of gravity in Hettie's eyes.

"Some men might be that way," she finally said, consolingly—she was thinking of the innate coarseness of Hettie's lover—"but I don't think Mr. Wambush is. That was one of the first things my mother ever taught me. She told me she'd learned it by experience when she was a girl. I don't pretend to be better than other girls, but I've always made men keep their distance."

Hettie shrugged her shoulders, as if to throw off some unpleasant idea.

"Oh, I don't care. I'd do it over again. Lord, I couldn't help it. I love him so, and he is so sweet and good when he tries to be. He thinks I'm all right, too, in some ways. He says I'm just the girl to marry a dare-devil like he is. Did you ever know it was me that helped get him away from the revenue men the night he had a barrel o' whiskey on his wagon?" Hettie laughed impulsively, and her graceful little body shook all over.

"Mother thought you had a hand in it," answered Harriet, with an appreciative smile.

"It was fun," giggled Hettie. "Toot drove nipitytuck down the street from the Hawkbill as fast as he could lick it, and them a-gallopin' after 'im. I had been on the front porch talkin' to his father, who was anxious about 'im and wanted to see 'im. Toot pulled up at the side gate an' said: 'No use, Het, damn it; I can't make it, and they'll know my horse and wagon an' prove it on me.' Then I thought what to do; the men wasn't in sight back there in the woods. Quicker 'n lightnin', I made Toot push the whiskey across the porch into the kitchen an' shet the door, an' when the revenue men stopped at the gate Toot was settin' up as cool as a cucumber in his wagon talkin' to me over the fence. I think he was asking me to get in the wagon and go out home with him. I never seed—saw 'im so scared, though, in my life; but la me! it was fun to me, an' I had more lies on my tongue 'n a dog has fleas.

"'Did you have a barrel on that wagon a minute ago?' one of the two men asked.

"'What'n the hell are you talkin' about?' asked Toot. 'I haven't seed—seen no barrel.'" Hettie was trying to speak correctly, but the spirit of the narrative ran away with her meagre ideas of grammar.

"'Oh,' said I, 'you've got the wrong sow by the ear; a wagon went whizzin' by here a minute ago like it was shot out of a gun.'

"'Which way?' the officer asked, rippin' out an oath that 'u'd a-took the prize at a cussin'-bee.

"I pointed down the road and said: 'I hear it a-clatterin' now,' and off they galloped. Well, Toot soon loaded the whiskey again and drove off up the mountain, but he's laughed about that a hundred times and told the moonshiners about it. Whenever I meet one in the road—I know the last one of 'em—they ask me if I've seen a whiskey wagon anywheres about. Harriet," she added, more soberly, "you've give me a sight of comfort. Now tell me about you-know-who. Toot told me the last time he was at our house that he knowed you were gone on that new feller. I'm sorry they fit, but he had no business refusin' to credit Toot. Nobody else ever did the like, and it was calculated to rile him, especially when he was full an' loaded for bear, as folks say. How are you and him makin' out, Harriet?"

Harriet's face had taken on a sober look, and she hesitated before replying; finally she said:

"There is nothing between us, Hettie, and I'd rather not talk about him."

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" the other exclaimed. "He is such a good-looking man, and so many thought you and him would come to a understanding. They say a girl gets a mighty good whack at a man when he is laid up flat of his back. I never have tried it, but it looks reasonable."

Then Hettie rose. "I'm goin' to stay to dinner with you all," she said, "and I'm going out now to help yore ma. Pore woman, she looked dead tired jest now!"

A few minutes later Mrs. Floyd came to Harriet, who was still seated in the parlor, an expression of deep thought on her face.

"Harriet," said the old lady, wiping her damp hands on her apron, "Hettie has gone to work washing dishes in there like a house a-fire. I declare she's a big help; as soon as she comes about I feel rested, for I know she won't leave a thing undone. What have you been saying to her? I never saw her so cheerful. She's been runnin' on in the kitchen like a fifteen-year-old child. I declare I can't keep from liking her. You must a-told her some'n about Toot Wambush."

"I did," admitted Harriet. "Mother, I've been standing in her way. I believe he likes her, and will marry her now that I have given him his last answer."

"Do you really, daughter?"

"Yes, I think he will—I'm almost sure of it, and I just had to tell her so, she looked so down-hearted."

Mrs. Floyd laid her hand on Harriet's head and smiled.

"You deserve to be happy, too, daughter, and somehow I feel like you are going to be. Mr. Westerfelt is nobody's fool; he knows you're sweet and good, and—"

"I don't want to talk about him, mother," Harriet said, firmly, as she rose. "I think we ought to keep Hettie a few days; she'd like to be near the post-office, I know."

"Well, the Lord knows I'm willing," consented Mrs. Floyd, as she followed her daughter to the kitchen.



Chapter XVII

Sue Dawson leaned on the front gate at the Bradleys'.

"Hello! Hello! Hello! in thar!" she cried, in a shrill, piping voice. No one replied. "I'm a good mind to go in anyway," she thought. "I reckon they hain't got no bitin' dog." She raised the iron ring from the post and drew the sagging gate through the grooves worn in the pebbly ground and entered the yard. The front and back doors were open, and she could see a portion of the back yard through the hall.

No one seemed to be in the house. A young chicken had hopped up the back steps, crossed the entry, and was stalking about in the hall chirping hollowly, as if bewildered by its surroundings. Across the rear door a sudden gust of wind blew a wisp of smoke, and then it occurred to Mrs. Dawson that some one might be in the back yard. She drove the chicken before her as she stalked through the hall.

Martha Bradley was making soap. With her back to the house, she was stirring a boiling mixture of grease and lye in a large wash-pot. Under the eaves of the kitchen stood an ash-hopper, from the bottom of which trickled a tiny amber stream.

"Howdy, Marthy?" said Mrs. Dawson, behind Mrs. Bradley's back. "It was so still in the house, I 'lowed you wus all dead an' buried."

Mrs. Bradley turned and dropped her paddle. "Why, ef it hain't Mis' Dawson, as I'm alive! Whar on earth are you bound fer?"

"Jest come over fer a day ur so," was the reply. "I thought some o' stoppin' at the hotel, but, on second thought, I 'lowed you an' Luke mought think strange ef I did, so heer I am."

"I've al'ays got room fer a old neighbor, an' you'd a-been lonely at the hotel. I'm glad you come, but—" Mrs. Bradley took up her paddle and began to stir the contents of the pot. "I reckon, I ortter tell you, plain, Mis' Dawson, that John Westerfelt is stayin' with us. We've got plenty o' room fer you both, but I thought it mought not be exactly agreeable fer you."

A spiteful fire kindled in Mrs. Dawson's eyes. "It mought upset him a little speck, Marthy, but I hain't done nothin' to be ashamed uv myse'f."

Mrs. Bradley went to the ash-hopper and filled a dipper with lye and poured it into the pot. Then she wiped her hands on her apron. "John Westerfelt's had enough trouble to kill a ordinary man, Mis' Dawson," she said, "an' I'm his friend to the backbone; ef you've got any ill-will agin 'im, don't mention it to me. Besides, now would be a good time fer you to show Christian forbearance. He's been thoughtless, but heer lately he is a changed man, an' I believe he's tryin' his level best to do right in God's sight. He's had a peck o' trouble in one way or another over heer, but, in addition to that, I'm mistaken ef he don't suffer in secret day and night."

"You don't say," cried Mrs. Dawson, eagerly. "I 'lowed he wus cuttin' a wide swath over heer."

"Never was a bigger mistake. He don't visit a single gal in the place. He neglects his business, an' spends most o' his time in the woods pretendin' to hunt, but he seldom fetches back a thing, and you know he used to be the best shot at the beef matches. Luke thinks his mind is turned a little bit. Luke happened to go 'long the Shader Rock road t'other day an' seed John lyin' flat o' his back in the woods. He passed 'im twice inside of a hour, an' he hadn't moved a peg. No healthy minded man don't carry on that way, Mis' Dawson."

"Hain't he a-settin' up to that hotel gal?" Mrs. Bradley turned towards the house with her guest. "No, he hain't," she answered. "She nussed him when he wus down, an'—well, maybe she does kinder fancy him a little—any natcherl girl would—I don't say she does nor doesn't, but he hain't been to see 'er, to my knowledge, a single time, nur has never tuk her out to any o' the parties. No, thar's nothin' twixt 'em; she tried to git 'im to come stay at the hotel when he wus sick atter the Whitecap outrage, an' I thought she acted a little for'ard then, but he refused an' come to us instead."

"You don't say so; why, I heerd—"

"A body kin always heer more about a thing fur off than right whar it happens," concluded Mrs. Bradley. They were now in the sitting-room, and Mrs. Dawson took off her bonnet and shawl. Mrs. Bradley put some pieces of pine under the smouldering logs in the fireplace and swept the hearth.

That night when Westerfelt came home supper was on the table. He was surprised to see the visitor, but she did not notice him and he said nothing to her. The meal passed awkwardly. Luke made an effort to keep up the conversation with her by asking about his friends in her neighborhood, but her replies were in a low tone and short, and he finally gave up the attempt.

Westerfelt rose from the table before any of the others and left the house. As he turned from the gate to go to the stable, he looked through the window and saw Mrs. Dawson move her chair to the fire. He paused and leaned against the fence. The firelight shone in the old woman's face; it was sad and careworn. Somehow she reminded him of his mother, as she had looked a short time before she died. He started on slowly, but came back again to the same spot. Luke wiped his mouth on the corner of the table-cloth, rose from the table, and went out at the back door. Westerfelt heard his merry whistle at the barn. Mrs. Bradley filled a large pan with dishes and took them into the kitchen. Mrs. Dawson bent over the fire. Something in the curve of her back and the trembling way she held her hands to the blaze made him think again of his mother. He hesitated a moment, then, lifting the ring from the post, he pushed the gate open and went round the house and into the kitchen.

In a corner dimly lighted by a tallow-dip, and surrounded by pans, pots, and cooking utensils, Mrs. Bradley stood washing dishes. She turned when he entered.

"Why," she exclaimed, "I—I thought you'd gone; what are you comin' in the back way fer?"

"I've got something to say to—to her," he said, in a low tone. "I thought I'd ask you to stay out here for a minute—I won't be long."

She said nothing for a moment, but looked at him strangely, as she slowly dried her hands on a dish-towel. Then she burst out impulsively:

"John Westerfelt, ef Luke wusn't so particular 'bout my conduct with men, I'd kiss you smack dab in the mouth an' hug you; no wonder women make fools of the'rse'ves about you. Ef anybody ever dares agin to say anything agin yore character to me, I'll—"

She choked up, turned to the corner, and dived into her dishpan, and he saw only her back. He went into the next room. Mrs. Dawson's dull glance was fixed on the coals under the logs. She started when she looked up and saw him behind her, and shrank from him in a pitiful blending of fright and questioning astonishment as he drew a chair near to hers and sat down.

"What do you want, man?" she asked, looking towards the kitchen door, as if she hoped Mrs. Bradley would appear.

"I want to talk to you, Mrs. Dawson," he said. "I don't want you to hate me any longer. I am awfully sorry for you; I did you a big injury, but I didn't do it on purpose. I did not dream it would end like it did. I have suffered over it night and day. It will stick to me the rest of my life."

The old woman was rapidly regaining her self-possession and with it her hatred of him; her eyes flashed in the firelight. The sad expression he had surprised on her face was gone.

"She's in 'er grave," she snarled. "Give 'er back an' I'll git down on my knees to you, as much as I hate you!"

"You know I'm helpless to undo what's been done," he said, regretfully.

"Well, take yorese'f out'n my sight then. You've made a' ol' woman perfectly miserable; go on an' marry, an' be happy, ef you kin."

"I never expect to be that. I've repented of my conduct a thousand times. I have suffered as much as God ought to make a man suffer for a wrong deed."

"Not as much as me, an' I hain't guilty o' no crime nuther."

"I've humbly begged your forgiveness. I can do no more." He rose slowly, despondently.

"Git out'n my sight, you vagabond!" Mrs. Dawson's voice rose till the last word ended in a shriek.

Footsteps were heard in the kitchen, the door opened, and Mrs. Bradley strode in, her face aflame. Westerfelt stepped towards her and put his hands on her shoulders.

"Don't say anything," he said; "for God's sake, pity her."

"I cayn't stand it," she blurted out, half crying; "she's gwine entirely too fur!" She pushed his hands down and stood glaring at Mrs. Dawson.

"Look a heer, Sue Dawson," she said, getting her breath fast, "yo're a older woman an' me, an' I've got due respect fer age an' a gray head, but John Westerfelt is my friend, an' is a-visitin' of me 'n' Luke at present. You are welcome in my house ef you'll behave yorese'f decent, but you cayn't come under my roof to goad him to desperation. Now I've said my say. Thar's the door ef you dare open yore mouth agin. Thar ain't a speck o' Christian sperit in you. I'm ashamed to call you neighbor."

With an expression of mingled anger and fear in her face, Mrs. Dawson looked at her hostess, and without a word rose stiffly and went to the bed, on which lay her shawl, carpet-bag, and bonnet. Her face was to the wall as she drew her bonnet on and began to tie the strings.

"I'll go out the back way," whispered Westerfelt to Mrs. Bradley; "for God's sake, don't let her go!"

"All right," promised Mrs. Bradley; "go on. I'll make 'er stay, I reckon, but she's as stubborn as a mule."

He went through the kitchen, round the house, and out at the gate. He stopped, leaned against the fence, and watched the two women through the window. Mrs. Dawson had put on her shawl. She held her bag in front of her, and stood in the centre of the room. Mrs. Bradley leaned against the mantel-piece. Their lips moved, and Mrs. Dawson was gesticulating furiously, but he could not hear their voices. Suddenly Mrs. Bradley took the bag from the old woman and put it on the bed. Then she untied Mrs. Dawson's bonnet-strings, took off the bonnet and shawl, and drew her back to the fire. They stood talking for a moment, then sat down together. Mrs. Bradley, holding the shawl and bonnet in her lap, put her arm round the old woman. Mrs. Dawson began fumbling in the pocket of her dress. She got out her handkerchief and held it to her face, then Mrs. Bradley began to wipe her own eyes on the corner of her apron.

"My God!" groaned Westerfelt, as he turned away, "this is more than I can bear!"

The next day was Sunday. It was as bright and balmy as spring. Westerfelt slept late. When he went in to breakfast Mrs. Bradley told him that Mrs. Dawson was out at the barn with Luke. They all intended to go to camp-meeting that day, she said. A revival had been going on at the meeting-house for the past week, and the congregation had increased so much that the little building would no longer hold the people. It had, therefore, been announced that the Sunday service would be held at Stone Hill Camp-ground, two miles from the village on the most picturesque of the Cohutta Valley roads.

As Westerfelt went down to the stable after breakfast he saw wagons, hacks, and old-fashioned carriages standing at nearly every gate on the street. Washburn and a colored boy, Jake, were at the stable busy washing and oiling the wheels of vehicles and currying horses.

"I wus jest about to send up to you," was Washburn's greeting. "Turnouts are at a premium to-day. I didn't know whether to let out yore own hoss an' buggy or not; two or three fellers that want to take the'r girls are offerin' any price fer some'n to ride in."

"I am going myself."

"Hossback ur buggy?"

"Buggy." Westerfelt turned suddenly and walked back towards the hotel. He had decided to invite Harriet Floyd to go to camp-meeting with him, let the consequences be what they might. He wanted to see her, and nothing should prevent it—not even Mrs. Dawson's presence in the village nor her threats.

As Westerfelt walked away Washburn said to himself; "It u'd be tough on 'im ef Bascom Bates is ahead of 'im, after all his hangin' back. By George! I can't imagine who else Bates could 'a' intended to ask; he's give up goin' to Hansard's. I'll bet my hat Bates means business with Miss Harriet."

Westerfelt walked into the parlor of the hotel. A colored girl was sweeping the carpet and went out to tell Harriet that he wished to see her. Harriet didn't keep him waiting long. On rising she had dressed for church. She wore a pretty gray gown with a graceful bow of ribbon at her throat, and carried her cloak on her arm. She put it on the sofa as she entered. She was agitated, and he felt her hand quiver when he took it.

"I came to ask you to drive to the camp-ground with me," he said, as her hand slid out of his; "will you go?"

"Why—why," she stammered, "I—I—promised to go with Mr. Bates; I'm very sorry; if I had known—"

He glanced through the open door; his face had suddenly grown cold, hard, and suspicious. He was jealous even of a man she had never been with before. She sank into a chair and looked up at him helplessly, appealingly. She knew he was jealous, and in that proof of his love her heart went out to him.

"Oh, it don't matter," he said, quickly. "I'm going to drive out myself anyway, and I thought if you had nobody to take you, you might like to go 'long."

"He asked me yesterday," she faltered. Her voice was full of startled concern. "I'd rather go with you, you know I had. I have never gone with him anywhere. We are almost strangers. I—I would hardly know how to talk to him."

She knew it was not with his natural voice that Westerfelt answered. "Well," he said, coldly, "you can't go with two fellows, and he got to you first. I reckon Bates knows the roads; you'd better take the river-bottom route. Washburn says the other is not as good as it might be. Good-bye."

He had reached the veranda when she called him back. As he re-entered the room she rose and stepped towards him.

"Are you mad with me, Mr. Westerfelt?"

He was ashamed of himself, but he could not conquer his horrible humor. "Not in the least; I don't blame you." His tone was still cold and his glance averted. She put her handkerchief to her face in vexation, but removed it quickly as she caught his glance.

"I'll not go; I'll stay at home," she affirmed.

"No, go; you'd never hear the end of it if you were to slight Bates."

"Shall I see you out there?"

"I reckon not," he laughed, harshly. "I never want anybody bothering me when I take a girl anywhere, and I try to obey the Golden Rule with other men. You belong to Bates to-day." He left the room. She heard him stride across the veranda and walk hurriedly away. She went to the window and tried to catch another glimpse of him, but he was out of sight. She turned into the next room. Her mother was there packing some table linen into the bottom of a wardrobe.

"Mother," the girl faltered, "Mr. Westerfelt asked me just now to go to the camp-ground with him."

Mrs. Floyd let a table-cloth which she was folding hang down in front of her for a moment as she looked at Harriet. "Well, you told him you was going with Bascom Bates, didn't you?"

"Yes, of course, but—"

"Well, what of it? I wish you'd just look what a mess the rats have gone and made of this linen. They've been trying to gnaw the starch out of it, and have cut holes in nearly every piece."

"He looked mad, mother; he pretended he didn't care, but I never saw such a look on anybody's face. Oh, mother—"

"Harriet!" Mrs. Floyd looked straight into the girl's eyes as she closed the wardrobe door and turned the key. "Looky' here, I'm older than you, and I know men a sight better. Mr. Westerfelt is a nice man and a good enough catch, but he's got plenty of faults. You've just got to listen to reason. Some men will despise a girl quicker for letting themselves be run over than anything else, and he's one of that sort. He has deliberately insulted you by throwing up a delicate matter to you, which God knows you couldn't help, and now—well, he's a purty thing to dictate to you who you go with—"

"Mother, something was wrong with his mind when he said that," interrupted Harriet. "He's just gettin' well, that's all. Oh, mother, he loves me—I know he does—I know it! I'll bet he hardly remembers what he said. And now this old Bascom Bates has come between us."

Mrs. Floyd was moved, in spite of her desire to hold her ground.

"Yes," she admitted, "I think he acts like he loves you, and after staying away so long, his wanting to go with you to-day looks powerful like he has come to his senses at last. But you will spoil it all if you slight another respectable man to please him. That's the long and short of it. Now, you take my advice and give him as good as he sends every time, and a little more to boot. It's a woman's right."

"Mother, you don't know Mr. Westerfelt; he—"

"La! yes, I do; they are every one p'int-blank alike. They want what they can't get, and what other men have, a sight more than what is in easy reach. If you've got any gumption, you'll make him think you are having a mighty good time with Bascom Bates to-day. If Bascom keeps coming to see you it will make him think all the more of you, too. Bates belongs to mighty nigh as good stock as he does anyway, and folks say he is the sharpest trader and note-shaver in the county. Ef you don't encourage him to come regular I shall do it for you. And if I ever get a chance I'll throw out a hint to Westerfelt that you have a little leaning towards the law anyway."

"I don't want you to do that, mother," objected Harriet, quite seriously.

Mrs. Floyd laughed slyly as she turned away. "You leave them two Jakes to me. I feel like I was a girl again. We used to have lots o' fun with Mr. Floyd, me 'n' mother did. Did I ever tell you the time me'n' her—" But Harriet, with a preoccupied air, had turned away.



Chapter XVIII

Westerfelt went back to the stable and ordered Jake to get out his horse and buggy. Washburn watched him over the back of the mule he was hitching to a spring wagon and smiled. "Got it in the neck that pop!" he murmured. "I knowed Bates wusn't a-buyin' a new whip an' lap-robe fer nothin'. I'll bet my life Mr. Westerfelt 'll lose that gal, an', by George, he ort to! He don't seem to know his own mind."

Just then Bascom Bates whirled by on his way to the hotel. There was something glaringly incongruous between his glistening silk hat and the long-haired "plough horse" and rickety buggy he was driving. The silk hat was a sort of badge of office; lawyers wore them, as a rule, and he was the only lawyer at Cartwright. He had bought his silk hat on the day of his admission to the bar, and had worn it regularly on dry Sundays ever since. It would have suited anybody else better than it did him. He was not at all good-looking. His hair was stiff and rather red, his eyes were pale blue, his face was freckled, and the skin of his neck had a way of folding itself unattractively. He wore thick cow-leather shoes, which he never blacked, but greased frequently, and that made them catch and hold the dust. He never considered himself carefully dressed unless all the buttons of his vest were unfastened, except one at the top and one at the bottom. The gap between the two buttons was considered quite a touch of rural style. He held the reins, but a little negro boy sat on the seat beside him. He was taking the boy to hold his horse while he went into the hotel after Harriet. That, too, was considered quite the proper thing—a custom which had come down from slavery days—and as there was a scarcity of black boys in the village, Bates had brought his all the way from his father's plantation. The boy was expected to walk back home after the couple got started, but Bates intended to give him something for his trouble, and the distinction of holding Mr. Bates's horse in town was something the boy never expected to forget.

Bates had been a common farm-boy before he studied law, and the handles of ploughs, axes, and grubbing-hoes had enlarged the joints of his fingers and hardened his palms. He had studied at night, earned a reputation as an off-hand speaker hard to be downed in debating societies, made a few speeches on the stump for willing gubernatorial candidates, and was now looked upon as a possible Democratic nominee for the Legislature. Most young lawyers in that part of the State were called "Colonel," and Bates had been addressed by the title once or twice.

Westerfelt pretended not to see him as he passed, but he urged Jake to hurry up and get out his horse and buggy. He had a strange idea that it would humiliate him in Harriet's eyes to be seen by her as she passed with a man he now regarded as a rival. He would have given much to have had any sort of companion with him. Jake had some difficulty in backing the horse into the shafts, and before Westerfelt could get started, he saw Harriet come out on the veranda and follow Bates to his buggy. However, Westerfelt managed to get started before they did, and drove on without looking back. Knowing that Bates was fond of fast driving, and fearing that he might overtake him, Westerfelt drove rapidly. The fires of jealousy were raging within him. He told himself that it would be a long time before he would ask her again to go with him anywhere, and during that drive he almost convinced himself that he could give her up without much regret. He was sure Bates wanted to marry her. Such a stolid, matter-of-fact man would never visit a girl with less serious intentions. Bates, of course, was ignorant of the girl's early love for Wambush. He wondered if she would ever confess to the lawyer as she had to him. He thought it unlikely; for he had found it out and mentioned it to her first, and, besides, her experience with him had taught her discretion. Westerfelt would have been more generous in his estimation of her character had he been less jealous, and less angered by the disappointment of not being her escort. People driving slow teams looked at him curiously as he dashed past them. He had but one desire at that moment, and that was not to face Harriet and Bates together.

The road, near the camp-ground, went through a dense wood, and was so narrow that vehicles could not pass one another on it. In the narrowest part of this road Westerfelt was forced to stop. A wagon filled with women and children, and driven by old John Wambush, had halted in front of him.

"What's the matter?" Westerfelt called out to the old man, who had got down beside his horses and was peering at the motionless line of vehicles ahead.

"A hack's broke down," the old fellow replied. "Nobody hurt, it seems, but the banks on both sides is so steep that they cayn't cleer the road. We'll have to take our time. I'd jest about as soon set heer in my wagon as to listen to them long-winded preachers, anyway."

Westerfelt heard the beat of hoofs behind him. He was sure Bates and Harriet were approaching, but he dared not look around. Through the trees came the sound of singing from the camp-ground. The horse behind got nearer and nearer, till it stopped with its nose in the back part of Westerfelt's buggy, Westerfelt did not turn his head. He leaned over the dash-board and impatiently called out to old Wambush:

"How long are they going to keep us?"

"Tell kingdom come ur Gabriel blows his horn," laughed the old man, and all his family and the neighbors who were sharing the hospitality of his wagon joined in the laugh. It was a thing the old man would have said to anybody else and in the same tone, but it irritated Westerfelt. The silence of the couple behind convinced him that it was Bates and Harriet, for men in love do not talk much. Mrs. Wambush turned her head and took off her gingham bonnet to get a good look at the man her son had tried twice to kill. Her features were so much like Toot's that Westerfelt, who had never seen her before, thought he had discovered the fountain-head of the young outlaw's villany. He glanced aside, but she continued to stare at him fixedly.