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                           The Nightriders' Feud

                           By Walter C. McConnell


    NEW YORK
    THE COSMOPOLITAN PRESS
    1912

    Copyright, 1912, by
    Walter C. McCONNELL




The Nightriders' Feud




CHAPTER I


John Redmond, the second, had just completed his education in a New York
college, having been graduated with high honors, and was therefore
prepared to go out into the world and set it on fire with his
brilliancy. But the call of the great business world was strangely
superseded by the "call of the wild," which had long since taken firm
hold upon his young heart. Since his earliest recollections his soul had
longed to go out into the wild Western country, and he was now fully
determined to appease his adventurous appetite amid the great wild
mountains of the West.

Thoughts concerning his future flitted fast through his study-ladened
brain as the train sped on toward his home. Yes, he would go to the
mountains and seek gold or coal where others, with less ability to find,
had passed over the immense wealth which must surely lie hid deep
beneath the great earthen mounds. This wealth, he thought, had been
placed there by the Maker of the mighty earth, that his great skill as
an engineer might be made known to the world. It was there for his own
pleasure; it had not been intended that others should make the
discovery. His training would enable him to make discoveries which
others had not been skillful enough to make. The life would be just to
his liking, and would fill a long-felt desire to invade the bowels of
the hitherto uninvaded depths of rocky earth. It was not his intention
to delay one moment; he would go at once.

The train sped on, and he reached his home in good time. There he was
greeted with the sad news that his uncle, John Redmond, for whom he was
named, had been slain by murderous Nightriders over in the valley of
Kentucky. His tobacco crop had been utterly destroyed, his barns and
out-houses devastated, his home burned to the earth, and as he was
fleeing from the burning building, in an effort to save himself from a
torturous death, he had been shot down in his tracks like a dog, a
forty-four Winchester bullet tearing his heart to pieces.

What more would man need to set his soul on fire? What more would he
need to raise his ire to the verge of distraction?

John Redmond, the second, stood with bowed head, listening to the
terrible outrage; his Southern blood warmed to the boiling point. His
heart beat fast, his teeth came together with a sharp noise, and his
fists were tightly clenched. Revenge burned within him, his soul felt
that the foul deed called for vengeance. In a twinkling his plans were
changed. His adventurous spirit told him that his life's work had been
found, that he must hie him to the country where his uncle had met such
a hasty and untimely death; that he must seek out those who had murdered
him and revenge the cold deed.

John Redmond had hardly known this uncle, having seen him only one time,
but he was a kinsman, the same blood ran through their veins, their
forefathers were the same, and he would be speedily avenged.

The younger Redmond sent agents into Kentucky to purchase land, and in a
little while all preparations for a hasty departure had been made. The
cabin purchased needed repair, but that would be done with his own
hands. He would have plenty of time for all such work.

His intention was to go over and raise tobacco in direct opposition to
the great association of good farmers. Let them do what they would, he
would show them that he was a man of his own notions, and no set of men
could run him, much less a body of uneducated "galoots."

Next you see of John Redmond he is crossing the country by wagon train.
Slowly his caravan moves, finally reaching the place purchased for the
future home of this man of strong desires and peculiar aims. The
belongings were unloaded, and those who assisted him in the move bade
him a successful ending and returned to civilization. While John
Redmond, who introduced himself to this new country as "Jack Wade," was
making preparations for a comfortable living, the eyes of the
surrounding community were cast upon him. Slowly and untiringly he
labored for a few weeks, getting everything in comfortable condition,
seeking the assistance of the few loafing farmers, until matters were
fairly arranged and everything fixed up comfortably for bachelor
quarters.

If one should have been standing on the hill at a time very near sunset
one afternoon, he could have seen Jack Wade, the graduate engineer,
standing at the bars or gate leading from his horse-lot to a plot of
ground used as a pasture for his one cow and one horse. He no longer has
the appearance of a soft-skinned school-boy, but rather is dark and
ruddy, the warm Kentucky sun having changed his complexion. He has on a
blue shirt, soft, with collar attached, high-top boots, into the legs
of which his corduroy pantaloons are stuffed, in the style of a true
Westerner. He has one foot resting upon the lower wire while his arms
fell loosely across the top wire. He is surveying with his keen dark eye
the surrounding country, not having had time heretofore to look about
him.

Over yonder, about one mile to the south of him, is a farmhouse; over to
his right, and a little to the northwest, is another cabin. Behind him
looms up the huge mountain, amid whose rugged rocks and green shrubbery
much of his time will be spent. He turns and looks toward the mountain;
there he sees another cabin, or small house. It is the home of a tobacco
planter, who has one son and an only daughter.

Nora Judson has many times looked longingly down the dusty road toward
the cabin of the newcomer and wondered what he was like. Her scheming
brain found a way by which she could tell.

Twilight's shadows are drawing the day to a close. Down the cow-trodden
road can be seen an old brindle cow, coming leisurely, switching her
tail from one side to the other, nibbling the sweet tufts of grass along
the side of the trail. On she comes, until she passes the watcher and
goes out into the woodland just beyond.

Wade watched the cow until she was out of sight, then he sighed.

"It's going to be a fearful job," he said mentally, "but the thing
_shall_ be done. Not one of them shall be left if God spares me long
enough to take them away."

As the last words left his mind he glanced heavenward, as if to implore
the Almighty to aid him in a work which he honestly thought was for the
good of humanity at large and for God Himself. He was honestly convinced
that he was on an errand of great mercy, and the world would be made
better and humanity live more peaceably among themselves, and more godly
by the fulfillment of his plans.

"Not one," he repeated, "not one shall be left to molest the peace of
the innocent ones in this great valley,"--he swept his hand about him
tragically,--"in this wonderful valley."

He sighed again. The gloom of a departing day was gathering about him.
The lonesomeness of a twilight in the valley was making a deep
impression upon his young life and he was beginning to long for
companionship.

The monotony of the hour was broken by the faint sound of a female voice
coming from toward the mountain, calling, "Soo-cow, soo-cow, sook-sook!"
The call came vibrating down through the valley to his listening ears.
Jack Wade's heart gave one joyful bound because a human being, and that
a girl, was near. Nearer and nearer came the call, until through the
gathering darkness could be seen the form of a valley maid. Soon she
hove into full view just up the road. On she came, calling the cow,
until she stood directly opposite Wade.

Apparently she had not before noticed him standing beside the fence.

"Good-evening," said Wade pleasantly. A lovely flush covered her dark
face.

"Howdy?" she replied. Then falteringly, "Seen anything of a old brindle
cow down this away?"

"Yes," said Wade. "She's just yonder in the woodland grazing leisurely.
I'll go fetch her for you."

"Ye needn't be so kind," said the girl. "I kin git her myself. Much
obleeged."

She started on, unmindful of his grateful glance, after the cow.

"I'll go with you, if you don't mind," he said, "and show you where to
find her."

She didn't mind, so Wade bolted, in athletic style, over the fence and
joined her.

Old Peter Judson's daughter was a very beautiful girl. Jack looked into
her face,--he had nothing else to do just now,--and wondered how it was
possible that she could be so pretty. Though born and reared in the
valley, and having known nothing of the outside world, she was fearless
in speech and manner. Her form was indeed very fine for one who had not
the opportunities to gather grace, her voice was musically soft and
sweet, her face was delicately fair. She looked up into Wade's eyes with
an expression of earnestness that was almost an appeal.

"Ye are the newcomer, ain't ye?" she asked, unabashed.

"I've not been here a great many days," he replied thoughtfully.

"Have ye come to stay?" she asked.

The question was very direct, but Wade felt no uneasiness in replying
truthfully. He had come to stay so long as everything was pleasant for
him, otherwise he might pull up "stakes" and leave when he thought the
time was ripe.

Her next question was even more direct. She stood for one moment,
surveying Wade casually.

"Have ye come to raise terbacker?" she asked.

"No," he replied, "I shall raise tobacco but in small quantities, merely
as a pastime. I am here especially on account of my health."

She surveyed him again, her large dark eyes going over him from head to
feet.

"Ye don't look unhealthy."

She was quite right. He did not look unhealthy. His large athletic frame
was not physically disabled.

"No?" he questioned. "Well, I'm not quite dead."

He laughed and so did she laugh, her silvery voice ringing out through
the fast gathering darkness.

"There is your brindle cow," he said, pointing to the creature which
stood with neck bent, looking back at the two approaching figures.

"Thank ye for bein' so kind," she said, looking up at him with a
grateful expression upon her countenance. Picking up a short piece of
broken tree limb she went round the cow, crying "Hooey-hooey!" and
striking her about the flanks. The cow, fully understanding what was
wanted of her, started back up the road toward home, while the girl
appeared to pay no further heed to Wade's presence, feeling that he had
done his full duty in locating the cow. However, the latter followed her
out of the woods, both of them trailing along slowly and silently behind
the cow.

"I'm going to help you to get the runaway home," said Wade, smiling.

"Ye needn't," she exclaimed; "I know the road all right," a little
sarcastically.

"But I also want to learn it," he replied, not in the least rebuffed.

"Ye might be losin' time for me, an' I don't want ye to do that,"
tenderly.

"I'd rather lose time assisting you than do anything else at this
moment."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "ef ye want to learn the road, come on."

Her face flushed. She felt it, but Wade could not penetrate the twilight
sufficiently to discern the crimson coloring.

"I do want to," he said, "and I wish I had such a companion to show me
the way over the mountain and through the entire country."

Unheeding this remark, she said, "Hit's a little lonely, livin' alone,
hain't it?"

"It is while I am not very well acquainted with my neighbors, but I
shall become better acquainted soon. One cannot expect to be greatly
elated at once, or happy altogether, until he knows his neighbors well."

"Nice folks 'round here," she replied. "Once you git to know them you
are sure to like them."

There came a moment of silence.

"Do you live in the house toward the mountain?" asked Wade.

"That's Dad's house. I live there--have lived there for many years."

"You are very fond of the hills and ravines, I presume?"

"An' the brooks. They are the only companions I have ever known, except
my brother, an' he's been in the saddle ever since I was old enough to
have companions, or remember anything. They are my friends,--the cow and
the dog, the chickens an' the geese, the ducks an' the turkeys, an' even
the grunting pigs, are the only friends I have ever known."

"What a terribly lonesome life that seems to have been."

"Not to me; it has been a happy one."

"Pardon me, I should not have spoken that way."

"Hit don't make any difference how you speak," she said independently.
"We are used to everything here."

"Who lives yonder to the south of us?" asked Wade, pointing in the
direction indicated.

"Jim Thompson. He's a terbacker raiser, too."

"And who to the west yonder?"

"Oh, that's the place where old John Redmond lived. It's not used now."

There was a tinge of sorrow in the girl's voice as she spoke.

"What became of old John Redmond?" asked Wade, his own voice quivering.

"Don't ye know, hain't ye heerd?"

"Haven't heard anything yet; haven't been here long enough to learn
much."

This untruth brought a flush over Jack Wade's face, but it was not seen
by the girl, the darkness being too deep.

"He was killed by the Nightriders," she said, choking; "shot to death
when his home was burned."

"So that's the course pursued with a fellow here, is it?" Wade's lips
curled scornfully.

"Sometimes, an' sometimes they don't. It's accordin' to what the other
feller is about."

"What has a fellow to do to bring about such an end as that served out
to old John Redmond?"

"Nuthin'. Old John didn't do nuthin'; that's what the trouble was."

"Who are the Nightriders?" asked Wade, after a moment's thought.

"Say, stranger," said the girl at this juncture, and evasively, "here's
my home, an' ye better git now. Ef Dad ketches ye here he mou't do to ye
like them fellers done old John Redmond, so I says much obleege fer
helpin' me fetch the old brindle cow home."

"I'll help _you_ any time I can," he said.

"Thank ye," she held out her hand shyly. Jack Wade held it in his own,
pressing it tenderly, until she pulled it away from him.

"Good-by," she said softly.

"Good-by," he returned, and then turned to face the lonesome gloom.




CHAPTER II


As Jack Wade faced about to return to his own cabin he saw a lone
horseman coming up the road toward him, riding very rapidly, which was a
custom in the country. No one ever rode slowly.

Remembering the girl's remarks of warning, he concluded it the height of
wisdom to be seen as little as possible lurking around the vicinity, as
he was in the community for an avowed purpose and he must be very
cautious in order to fulfill his mission. He therefore stepped back into
the shadow of a friendly bush and allowed the horseman to gallop by
without discovering him. He turned and watched the rider, until he
entered the gate through which the girl had driven the cow a few moments
before. A sudden impulse seized him to creep back under the shadow of
the trees and learn what he might from the conversation which he could
now hear but faintly. This being a very dangerous proceeding, his mind
was changed. He did not feel that he was thoroughly enough acquainted
with the surroundings nor the people and their customs, and would take
no chances until he should know more clearly what he was about--until he
became more accustomed to everything and everybody.

The horseman he had seen was none other than Tom Judson, brother of the
girl he had assisted in locating the cow. Tom rode into the lot, jumped
from his horse in true Western style, threw the reins of his bridle over
the saddle-horn, rapped the horse over the hips with his gloves, and
walked on behind him to the barn. Nora was now milking the old brindle
cow, and her father was inside the barn putting feed into the trough for
the stock.

"Peers ye air mighty late git'n' yer milkin' done," said Tom. "What's
ther matter of ye?"

He tapped the girl upon the head with the finger end of his glove, and
he tapped her again because she made no immediate reply.

"Reckon I hain't no later git'n' hit done than ye are a git'n' home,
seein' as how I'm most done now," she replied.

"Milkin' a cow hain't nuthin' like takin' a day fer to ride over the
country a givin' warnin's."

"What ye warnin' 'bout now, Tom?" she asked, with much interest.

"Go 'long, gal. Ye ain't been raised in this country fer nothin'! Ye
know what I've been warnin' 'bout well 'nough, 'thout axin' me. They's
a-goin' ter be hell raised in this country to-night. That's what I've
been warnin' 'bout. Now do ye know, durn ye!"

"I reckon I do. Who's a-goin' ter git it this time?"

"Aw, ye want to know too much all to once. Jest wait 'til ye see ther
blaze 'long erbout midnight, an' ye'll know all ye want to know."

"I mout be asleep then." Nora spoke feelingly. She desired to know more,
but hesitated to ask direct questions.

"Yes," said Tom, "I reckon ye will be asleep when ye think somethin's
a-goin' to be a-doin'. Them durn big black eyes of yourn'll see
everything in the whole blame valley afore mornin'. Ye kin see plum
through ther mountain when ye want to, an' they'll be a plenty fer you
ter see to-night, an' ther newcomer----!" Tom stopped suddenly and Nora
looked hastily up, inquiringly, hoping to hear him finish the sentence,
but he spoke never another word.

"What's hit about ther newcomer, Tom?" she asked after a moment's
hesitation.

"Nuthin'. What'd ye keer if hit was anything about him?"

"I don't; but ye was about ter say somethin' about him. That's why I
axed ye. I don't keer nothin' about him no mor'n anybody else." Nora did
have some anxiety about his safety, however, but she did not wish to
show this to Tom. She knew her brother's failing.

"Well," said Tom slowly, "seein' as how ye don't keer, I was a-goin' ter
say that he'd git his fill of peekin' 'round here afore he's many days
older, d'ye hear me?"

Nora did hear, and felt a pang peculiarly new to her pass over her
heart. Having now finished milking the old brindle cow, she raised up,
gave her a kick on the legs, and poured the milk into a larger pail
conveniently near. For one moment she studied the features of her
brother, then spoke to him tenderly.

"Now, Tom," she said, "what has ther newcomer done that ye've got it in
fer him?"

"Nuthin'," sullenly. "Nuthin' 'tall. Thought ye didn't keer so much
'bout him?"

"I don't."

"Then ye air mighty interested in somethin' down that away. What made ye
ax me that fer?"

"Aw, go 'long, will ye? Ef ye don't know nuthin', keep yer lips
buttoned; ef ye know somethin', tell it, an' don't be so tight with yer
knowin's."

"Ye air sassy, sis. Well, they hain't nuthin' ther matter with him, but
he acts like he mout do somethin' ef he hain't checked fust. Ef he opens
his mouth too much 'round here ye know good an' well what mout happen
ter him putty quick, don't ye?"

Tom gave Nora a slap in the face and followed on after his horse.

Old Peter Judson came out of the barn and, upon seeing Tom, asked if he
had given the warning to everybody. He had, he said, "and what's more,
everybody'd be thar."

Nora took up her milk pails and hurried into the house, where she found
her mother busily engaged in getting supper on the table. After
straining the milk and putting it away in its accustomed place, she
assisted her mother in the work.

Silence prevailed within her soul. Not a word escaped her lips as she
busied herself over the meal. Somehow she felt a strange foreboding. Her
heart was full of thought for the safety of the newcomer, in whom she
felt a peculiar interest.

He, not at all like other men she had known, had spoken kind words to
her, and they touched a tender spot in her heart. He had assisted her to
find the old brindle cow and had helped to drive her home. What was it
that attracted this wild flower of the mountain to this man? And what
was it that caused the unhappy throb when Tom remarked concerning him?
These remarks were anything but reassuring. She worked on amid her
soliloquy.

Mrs. Judson could not refrain from remarking the contrast between this
thoughtful girl and her own Nora.

"Ye air mighty quiet, Nora," she said, her face drawn up gingerly.
"What's ther matter of ye, that yer tongue hain't a-waggin' as usual?"

Nora stood for one moment thoughtfully pondering, while she deftly
dried, for the third time, the saucer which she held in her hand, then
throwing the dish towel over her shoulder, she faced her mother.

"Cain't a feller be quiet 'thout somebody a-thinkin' somethin's wrong?"

She was smiling deeply, the dimples in her cheeks showing beautifully.

"Not 'round this hyar kintry," replied Mrs. Judson. "Ye know yerself
that when everythings quiet like 'round this hill somethin's 'bout ter
happen. Now what does ail ye? What is ther matter with yer?"

"Tom says theys a-goin' ter be doin's 'round here to-night," replied
Nora, "an' I reckon he knows, ef anybody does."

Mrs. Judson now assumed an air of utter silence. She knew full well that
her daughter spoke the truth, that when Tom said that something was
likely to happen about the valley it usually did happen, and very soon
thereafter.

Tom and his father came into supper and ate quietly, while the women
served them, this being the custom in this country. The fact that they
were non-communicative now was because no doubt they had said, before
entering the room, all that was necessary concerning the plans for the
night. Nora remained in silence, ate her meal and cleared away the
dishes, still holding the silence. She gazed up at the twinkling stars
dancing in the heavens, at the great moon shining brightly, sending
darting rays through the foliage of the large trees overhanging the
cabin. A silvery mist hung over the mountain and flitted through the
valley, the while the stars smiled down on the troubled earth. Troubled?
Yes, all mankind is troubled down the valley. Over all the deep blue of
the heavens dropped a shining sheen to cover the already beautiful
landscape. From afar over the mountain the voice of the night-bird came
gliding through the mist, the "hoot" of the night owl sounded a note of
warning, the sleepless animals of darkness pealed forth their notes of
joy as they gamboled over the green mountainside, and down, far down in
the depths of the rich valley, the cow-bell tinkled as the cow nibbled
the sweet green grass. None of these had thoughts of fear, none of
these discerned the great danger to humanity, none of these felt the
deep heart throbs that beat in the breast of humanity.

It is growing late, but Nora Judson did not retire at her usual hour.
She dared not, lest she should lose the sight that had greeted her on
many similar occasions. However, she should not fail in one duty, her
evening prayer. This had been a lifelong duty, taught her early. Even in
the roughest and most rugged parts of this great universe the children
are taught that God liveth and reigneth. Somehow God gets into the most
seemingly forsaken communities in the remotest corners of the earth, and
lets it be known that He is the Almighty. He assumes power everywhere.
The child of the wildest region learns some form of prayer. Mrs. Judson
had taught Nora in her earliest days to say "Now I lay me down to
sleep," but knowing that she was not going to sleep this night Nora said
to herself, "What shall I do? what shall I do? fer I hain't a-goin' to
lay me down ter sleep this night. I hain't. O Lord, what shall I say?"

Strange as it may seem, it had never occurred to her that any form of
speech other than she had been taught would be a prayer, therefore she
was utterly lost to know how to proceed. She looked wonderingly
heavenward as if to catch inspiration. Then it was that the thought was
aroused within her, the thought that she should pray for others. Her
pure young heart had found a way to speak to God, so she bowed her head
and clasped her hands and said tenderly, "O God,"--she hesitated as if
gathering thought for expression,--"kin Ye keep a secret? Ef Ye kin,
don't tell anybody how the old brindle cow got under the wire. Don't,
fer goodness' sake, 'cause ef ye do, hit mout git _him_ into trouble. O
God, he is so nice. Them han'some eyes of his'n is a-hauntin' of me yet,
an' he was so good ter help me find old brindle an' drive her home. I
_was_ askeered to come up ther road by myself, but I didn't want to let
on to him like as ef I was, 'cause he mout a-thought I was weak, an' he
was so good an' spoke so tenderly an' kind-like.

"No man hain't never spoke to me that away afore, not even Al Thompson;
but I 'spect I don't keer nuthin' 'bout Al, an' maybe I never did; an'
_he_ said he was here for his health an' would raise ter--he said
to-bac-co. He knows, an' that must be right. O God, I hope Ye didn't let
Tom see him as he was a-goin' back ter his shanty, 'cause ef ye did, hit
mout bring on more trouble fer him, an' I know Ye don't want him to get
into trouble. Tom's a good boy an' don't mean anybody harm, but----"

Nora stopped and leaned forward, straining her ears to catch the weird
sound. From toward the mountain there came the clattering of many
horses' feet as they fell heavily upon the rocky hillside. On they came.
Nearer and nearer, louder and louder, the clattering sound grew.

Every strike of a hoof upon the rocky way was like a needle driven into
her breast over her heart. With few words she cut her prayer short.
Looking heavenward she muttered imploringly, "Save him, an' let old
brindle git out again sometime."

She stepped over to her one lonely, paneless window, pulled the latch
string, shoved the wooden panel aside and, peering out into the gloom,
listened with heavy beating heart to the clatter of the horses' feet as
they drew nearer. Heretofore this same sound had been as sweet music in
her ears. She had grown up in the midst of it, and her heart bounded
with great pleasure whenever she heard such a sound; but now it was
different, somehow she did not enjoy it. The many horsemen drew nearer,
until she could see them bounding rapidly down the mountain road.

Outside she saw two lone horsemen in saddles, standing by the gate, as
immovable as statues. Silently they sat, neither horse nor rider moving,
not a sound escaping their lips. The mighty throng of horsemen were now
passing directly in front, and the two silent watchers of the night
quickly joined the mad race. Not a word escaped any of them until they
were nearing Jack Wade's cabin. Then one fellow leaned over and
whispered, through his heavy dark head-gear, to his companion nearest
him, "Wonder if he'll fall in, too?" There was no reply. Perhaps one was
not expected.

On they flew, black demons of darkness, destructive vultures of freedom,
cutting the wind as if they had been a two-edged sword; slashing the
mist with their foaming steeds, dark steeds, as dark as the starless
night; enshrouded in caps as dark as the cloud-covered moon, speaking
never a word, but groaning destruction deep down in their revengeful
souls.

Jack Wade was awakened from a peaceful slumber by the thundrous tramp of
the horses' heavy feet as they galloped swiftly by. He rose stupidly and
went out, but as he looked, saw nothing, yet it seemed to him that the
very atmosphere of the valley was alive with fantastic dancers. The
weird spectacle grew before his sleep-ladened eyes, until the devils of
hell seemed encrouched about him. Evidently they were bent on tearing
his heart asunder, for there they were preparing to spring upon him.

"Begone, ye devils!"

The beat of the horses' feet falling upon the softer ground grew fainter
and fainter, until the sound could be heard no more. Wade sat in his
doorway pondering and wondering over the strangeness of the people among
whom he had taken up his abode. He knew that the noise which woke him
had been made by the tramping of many horses, but knew not whither they
were bound, nor what their errand. He sat for a long time looking down
through the lowlands, dreaming, pondering. Ever the great dark eyes of
the valley girl danced in the moonlight space before him. Her soft
stare, tender hands, and innocent expression haunted him. Out in the
deep distance a dog was baying. The horsemen had no doubt awakened him
as they had awakened Wade, and he was entering his protest in loud and
continuous bays. Behind him a rooster was crowing the midnight hour, his
own wall clock tolling the same hour. Overhead the moon was shining
brightly, sending her silvery rays to greet all the earth.

Suddenly there arose over the valley the shout of many voices, mingled
with the baying of as many dogs, then the midnight air was rent in twain
by the vibrations caused from the firing of pistols and rifles.

"What now?" thought the ponderer. "Ye gods! this is a fearful
condition."

Some two miles away a faint red light grew up out of the mist. Wade
strained his eyes in an effort to discern more clearly the cause. The
light grew until the watcher could clearly discern the flickering blaze
as it leaped high into the heavens, apparently bent on devouring the
very stars that gave light to the darkened earth. Still the blaze grew,
sending forth sparks like great balloons of fire. Over a little way
beyond another light sprang up to greet the straining eyes of the
watcher, and also grew in brightness, until the whole landscape for
miles over the valley was one bright sea of flame. The sight was too
much for Wade; he could not sit longer and watch it from such a great
distance. Hastily saddling his horse he rode toward the conflagration,
having two specific objects in view. One, and the lesser, to witness the
great conflagration; the other, to learn something of interest to
himself.

The road over which he was traveling was so entirely new to him that he
found it quite difficult to make any speed, therefore he resigned
himself to a jog-trot, picking his way over ravines and around low
growing shrubs, sometimes emerging out into the open and traveling
beneath the large forest trees. He often wondered how it was possible
for the horsemen who had gone on ahead of him to have kept up such a
terrible speed on such a road. They knew the earth beneath their horses'
feet, every inch of it, and feared not, he concluded. Their horses were
fully acquainted with the rough way, and hesitated not. How friendly the
light of the waning moon appeared to that lonely traveler in that silent
dark region! How beautifully shone the little friendly stars, those
small heavenly bodies, from their homes in the clear blue sky! One does
not realize the full value of the moonlight until one has real necessity
for it, then its great value is known--indeed no value can be placed
upon it then.

No light now came from the conflagration he was desiring to witness, but
there would be, as soon as he emerged once more into the open. He went
on cautiously, until he came out into the moonlight again. Yonder to the
right of him was the fire, still burning brightly, sending up a
flickering blaze. He hurried his pace as much as possible over the road,
and now saw a lone horseman speeding like the wind toward him. In
another moment he passed. His head was uncovered, but that was not
unnatural. It was all right; he knew him not. This lone horseman turned
in his saddle and glanced at Wade when he had got past him, never a
moment allowing his steed to slacken his pace. That was also all right.
They did not know each other. Wade hurried on, finally reaching the
burning building, where he found not a living thing, human nor beast,
nothing saving the dying embers of a burning home. The light from the
burning barn was brighter, and as he glanced that way he discovered a
poor horse lying by the gate in the agonies of death.

"Poor fellow," he thought, as he watched him breathe his last, "your
useful days are over; nothing can save you now."

Wade looked farther. On all sides he saw nothing but charred ruins, dark
devastation, no sign of human nor animal life--not even a sign of
vegetable life. No noise, not even the deep bay or the low whine of the
farmhouse dog greeted his ears. Again he turned back into the darkness
of the night and made his way to his cabin, none the wiser for having
taken the trip.




CHAPTER III


Jack Wade was neither physically nor mentally afflicted. His great body
was physically strong, his mind was symmetrically powerful. His college
training prepared him to face the many difficult problems of life, his
elect wisdom led him carefully at all times, and his athletic ability
stood him well in hand on many occasions. As he sat pondering, he
wondered over the peculiar fact that not a soul in the entire valley
with whom he had talked had been willing to breathe one word concerning
the great conflagration of a few nights previous. No one ever spoke of
it, as though nothing so important had ever happened. Yet one man had
lost, in little more time than an hour, what it had taken a lifetime to
accumulate.

Things down in the valley were mysteriously strange. Wade had been in
the community for some time, with an avowed purpose, but had not learned
a single thing that would lead him to any knowledge of what he most
desired to know. He was not yet even fully acquainted with his nearest
neighbors, and, feeling this to be necessary, he placed a book under his
arm and strode up the hot dusty road toward the cabin nearest the
mountain, knowing but little what kind of reception would be accorded
him. However, the reception was a secondary matter,--the sort did not
bother him in the least,--as his thoughts were not on kindly receptions
in this God-forsaken community. Apparently there was no friendly feeling
between any two persons in the valley, therefore he did not look for a
kindly reception, nor did he desire one. He wanted to know the people,
that was all.

He passed the little bush which had so kindly sheltered him when Tom
Judson came rushing by, and reached the spot where he had bid the little
wild flower, the valley girl, good-by. It all looked the same yet. There
was the planter's cabin, just as he had seen it on the other occasion;
there was the old rickety wire gate through which the girl drove the cow
and through which her brother had led his horse soon afterward, and
through which he himself now strolled. He felt a peculiar shyness, this
man of the world, when he went into the little farmyard. The dog bayed,
the chickens cackled loudly, and the ducks quacked, raising their heads
loftily and scampering off toward the horse-lot. One old turkey gobbler
proudly strutted dangerously near him, signifying that he must be very
careful while treading on the soil of their domain. Through the window
the girl was watching him, her lustrous eyes all aglow at his approach,
her big heart beating a pit-a-pat against her shapely bosom, so fast
that she greatly feared lest he must hear it from his waiting place
outside.

It was really the newcomer, the one person of all persons whom she most
desired to see. She remembered his last conversation, his kind words,
his attentive attitude. She had enjoyed him hugely, and wished for the
time when she should hear his sweet voice again. By the time he was
ready to knock she stood at the door, slightly blushing, not in the
least backward. Their eyes met, but that bespoke nothing. Her eyes had
met the gaze of others; so had his.

"I've brought a book for you to read," he said, not knowing that she
could read at all.

"You needn't," she replied, reddening. But she took the book, as he gave
it to her. Turning her face back toward the house she cried with a loud
voice, "Mam! here's John, ther newcomer."

Jack looked up startled, greatly confused. She laughed at his confusion.

"That's the name I give everybody who I don't know," she said, smiling.

Wade felt quite relieved, his confusion at once disappearing. The
simplicity of this pure valley girl wrought within his soul a feeling
almost sympathetic. The simple means she had employed in asking him to
introduce himself caused a feeling akin to shame to cover his heart.
Recovering his composure, he said:

"I am Jack Wade. I beg your pardon for not having told you before."

"Ye needn't," she replied, extending her hand. A continuous smile played
about her face.

"And your name?" he asked hesitatingly.

"Huh!" she grunted. "Thought everybody knowed me. I'm Nory Judson, only
gal of Peter Judson, owner of this large terbac--to-bac-ker farm. I'm
pleased ter know ye, Jack."

Wade smiled as she requested him to take a seat upon the rickety little
porch and make himself at home. She sat beside him and dangled her feet
in and out under the porch.

"You haven't got it quite right yet," he said, looking into her face.

"Got whut right?" she asked, a far-away expression covering her
countenance.

"Tobacco. T-o-b-a-c-c-o."

"To-bac-co, tobacco," she slowly spelled after him studiously. "I
thought hit was terbacker," she continued in apparent animation, "an'
nobody hain't never said hit ain't 'round here." She did not mean to
rebuke him for the correction. He thought so only because he understood
her so very little. However, the subject was most too grave for him just
at this juncture in their lives, therefore he quietly evaded further
comment, feeling assured that it was not his duty to show this simple,
sweet child of the mountainside how incorrectly she spoke, although he
would gladly have done so could it have been done without in the least
affecting her feelings. The time was not opportune. She was sensitive,
perhaps, in a large degree, and he cared not to trample upon her
sensibility. Far better that he place himself on a plane equal to her
own as regards the use of the English language; otherwise she was more
than his equal. Besides, he was in sore need of friends to assist him in
fulfilling his purpose.

"No one may ever say that you are not quite right," he said jovially.
"If they do, you may call on me and I'll see to it that justice is
done."

He smiled and she could not refrain from smiling.

"I forgive ye," she said, "because ye are a lonely bachelor, an' I don't
want ye ter feel bad. Ye look so lonesome."

"Thank you. It is very lonely down at my cabin just now, though I surely
will become accustomed to this quiet life soon. Then all loneliness will
disappear, I presume. Just think of a fellow being away out here by his
lonesome self all day and all night, without a human soul to vent his
wrath upon or to have a quiet conversation with, and your old brindle
cow won't come down that way any more."

She blushed, the crimson covering her face making her appear the more
beautiful, if such was possible. The flickering sunlight played on her
face as she replied, "She mout a-come agin fer all ye know sometime."

"If she does, I hope she'll get entirely lost deep down in the
woodland."

She turned sharply toward him.

"What fer?"

"So you may take longer to look for her, and upon discovering your
inability to locate her, may request the newcomer to aid you in the
search."

She was studiously silent for a moment, her feet still swinging to and
fro underneath the porch. "I know these woods better'n you."

"But we are to suppose that the hour is very late and you are quite
afraid to go into the woodland for fear some wild beast will catch you."

Her merry laughter rang over the mountain.

"Would ye help me agin?" she asked.

"Every time."

Again she sat silent.

"Old brindle mout git out agin and she mout git lost. Whut's ther book
ye brought me?"

"A story of the Dark Ages."

"Whut's that?"

"What?"

"Ther Dark Ages."

"Oh, that's a time away back yonder before you were born."

"Hit was putty dark in them days, wasn't it?"

Wade's face flushed perceptibly, but he smiled.

"You cannot be so very much younger than myself," he said.

"I don't know how old ye are, but I know I'm old 'nough ter go ter town
alone, an' can bring the cows home when Tom's not here."

"Who is Tom?"

"My only brother. Ye seed him t'other night when ye come with me ter
fetch the old brindle cow home, didn't ye?"

"I saw someone on horse back coming up the road."

"Did _he_ see ye?" She bent over and looked straight into Wade's eyes.

"I tried to keep him from doing so. I stepped behind a sheltering bush
while he passed, not that I particularly cared for his seeing _me_, but
I felt for your safety. You had told me that your father must not see
you with me, therefore I was in hiding for you, not for myself at all."

"Ye needn't," she replied warmly. "It's fer yourself I'm lookin' out. I
can take care of me. The next time ye can, jest keep on in ther middle
of ther road ef ye think yer hidin' fer me. Ye hain't, no, ye hain't."

Again Wade thoroughly misunderstood. "Let us keep peace," he said
tenderly, "because you are my nearest neighbor now, and I'm a most
neighborly fellow. I came over to-day because I believe neighbors ought
to be friendly."

"Is that all?" she asked, a wild and troubled expression in her dark
eyes. "No, not all, not quite all," he answered thoughtfully. "Had there
not been an attraction here----"

"Whut's 'attraction'?" she interrupted shyly.

"Something to bring a fellow." She could not seem to understand.

"Your hoss could a-done that."

Wade laughed outright. The silvery notes touched deep down into the
girl's very heart and soul, and she laughed a joyous laugh.

"I mean there is something on the other end to attract, to cause a
fellow to have a desire to go. For instance, a magnetic power attracts
other things, other bits of steel directly to it----"

"Whut's magnetic power?" she asked, interrupting.

"Haven't you seen a lodestone or a bit of steel in the shape of a
horseshoe that will pick up a needle of its own power?"

"I can do that. Is it a sign that I'm magnetic?"

"Sure. You are the power of attraction just now."

"Aw," she ejaculated, looking shyly at him, "I don't know whut you mean
yet."

"I'll bring a stone when I go to the village again and teach you
something of the power of magnetism."

"Ye needn't. I know all about that. Al Thompson said onct that I was so
powerful a magnetic that he jest couldn't keep away from me. Now I know
whut he meant."

"Who is Al Thompson?" asked Wade.

"Why, don't ye know? He's ther wolf--night-watch jest now."

"You are talking strange things to me, Nora. I don't know the
wolf--night-watch--at all." The girl placed her finger over her lips.
"Here comes Mam," she said.

The scrawny figure of Mrs. Judson appeared in the doorway. "Nora," she
said, drawling, "who'd ye say this man was?"

"His name is Jack. That's all I remember."

"Wade," said Jack, smiling.

"That's hit, Mam, Jack Wade. Well, he's ther newcomer, an' our
neighbor, an' he's come over ter make hisself 'quainted with us."

"Yer welcome, neighbor Wade," said Mrs. Judson. "Whar be ye from?"

"All the way from New York City."

"Phew!" whistled Nora, dangling her feet a little more furiously.
"That's ther biggest city whut hit is, haint it?"

"Well, the largest in the United States, at any rate."

"Be ye a-goin' ter raise terbacker----"

"Tobacco, Mam," corrected Nora, with a knowing wink.

"Whar'd yer l'arn ter be so smart?" asked Mrs. Judson angrily.

"From Jack here. He's been teachin' me ther smart ways of ther town
folks."

Jack smiled good-naturedly. He did not intend raising tobacco in great
quantities, he said, as he was here on account of his health, but would
raise some tobacco, just enough to keep him engaged, to keep him out of
deeper mischief.

"I might have the same fate served out to me as did one over yonder a
few nights back, if I should raise much tobacco."

For a moment there was a deep silence over the trio. Nora looked quickly
up toward the mountain, while her mother cast her eyes downward and
counted the cracks in the porch floor.

"Ye mout come through all right," she said finally.

"I might, and I may conclude to raise a large crop some time. I have
lately purchased the old Redmond farm, but don't intend using it for the
time being. A fellow living a lonely life does not feel greatly like
working much."

"Ye've got the richest land in ther whole valley," said Mrs. Judson,
"that's sure."

"I have heard so. I look for great crops off it in the future. Do not
hope to meet the same fate the former owner met with."

"Not very likely that ye will. I hope not."

"Thank you."

Wade, feeling that to prolong his call at this time would be encroaching
on mountain hospitality, excused himself, promising to come again.

"I'm very sorry," he said, "not to have met your men folks."

"They mout be here next time you call," said Nora, following him out to
the gate, loath to see him going. "I'll read ther book clean through.
Good-by, Jack."

"Good-by, Nora."

There was something attractive in young Jack Wade's bearing that caused
Nora Judson to look long after him as he wended down the road toward his
own cabin. Once he looked back and saw her still standing at the gate,
where he left her. Her hands were clasped before her, she stood erect,
looking neither to the right nor to the left, but straight in front of
her. Jack waved his hand, but she did not return the wave. When he was a
long way off he turned and looked again. She still stood motionless,
gazing out into the far beyond, her dress waving in the gentle wind, her
tresses, wafted by the gentle breezes, falling about her crimson cheeks.




CHAPTER IV


The cool air of the early morning, blowing down from the mountain, is
refreshing and invigorating to Jack Wade, who is standing in the door of
his cabin leaning against the facing leisurely, taking in with his eye
the broad expanse of the valley before him.

He inhales deeply of the pure fresh Kentucky morning air, while his
athletic frame quivers in the light of the rising sun. The eastern
horizon was all aglow with the brightness shining through the flitting
snow-white clouds. It was a beautiful picture, so he stood silent,
drinking in the scenery of the surrounding country with great pleasure.
Behind him, unknown to his waiting heart, stood a pure, sweet girl,
gazing out through the deep mist of the morning, as if to penetrate the
very depths to a distance where she might get one glimpse of the single
man who had unconsciously awakened within her soul a new life, a new
hope. A new being sprang up within her, her soul longed for the time
when she could see him and hear his musical voice speaking to her inner
life and vibrating to the deepest depths of her quivering young heart.

Wade thought of her often, but only as a newborn, unopened bud. He
thought of her oftener than he felt he should, but he couldn't help
that. Still, a flush of feeling came into his heart when he did think of
her. What was it? What was this dark-eyed daughter of a tobacco planter
to him that he should quit his pondering when the memory of her crossed
his mind or when her crimson face rose like a vision before his eyes?
She must be regarded as secondary. Other matters claimed his attention
first, and should receive strict and careful consideration. But he could
not resist. Temptation, ah, temptation! thou art the power which
overcomes strong man. Wade threw the saddle on his horse, strapped his
rifle on the saddle, and rode up the road toward the climbing sun,
toward the towering mountain, intending to take a few hours in hunting,
and casting over the views on the other side. When he reached Peter
Judson's cabin he hesitated. "The attraction, the hoss, hit brung him."

Old Peter was stringing some new wire along the outer fence and did not
notice Wade's approach; if he had noticed him he did not let on.

"Busy this morning, neighbor," said Wade, pulling up. Old Peter turned
abruptly, spat out a great stream of "terbacker" juice and replied:
"Ther durned old cow gits out too often. Gotter double ther wires.
'Light an' hitch, won't ye?"

Wade would, as he wished to become better acquainted with his nearest
neighbor. He had called before, he said, but had found Mr. Judson gone
out on business, and he was glad to find him at home on this beautiful
morning. While Wade talked with Old Peter Judson, he could feel the
power of those piercing dark eyes as they penetrated the window pane
behind him. The vision was again before him. The bewitching smile, the
great rows of pearly white teeth, the dimples in either cheek, he saw,
though she sat somewhere in the dark recesses of that little old cabin.
But this did not deter him. He spoke of the great prospect for another
crop, while the old man leaned against a fence post and occasionally
spit a stream of dark red tobacco juice.

Once he took deliberate aim at a young chick and missed him about a half
inch. He would have drowned him had he hit the mark.

"Ye haint got chickens down ter yer shanty?" said the old man
questioningly.

Wade had a few old hens and a rooster, he said. The hens were not
laying,--they were not the laying sort,--but he hoped to raise a few
chickens along just for his own pleasure, to get diversion from other
duties. He spoke so kindly and firmly that Peter Judson thought he was
going to like him, unless he took to different ways, unless he was
"agin" the poor man, unless he "mout do something terrible." There was a
chance that he was all right and there was a chance that he was all
wrong. The "Wolf, Night-Watch," had discovered things that did not at
all seem right, and until they were proved false or true an opinion
would not be entertained. While one talked with him, there arose a doubt
as to whether the Wolf, Night-Watch, might not be utterly mistaken. That
would be determined later. For the present he was perfectly all right.

Wade was also making discoveries of which he thought his neighbors knew
nothing. He was in the community, he told Judson, to aid and assist his
neighbors, especially those who showed an inclination to assist him and
a friendliness toward him. He had sufficient funds, he said, to enable
him to go through life easily, and therefore his sole aim was _not_ to
make money, but to regain lost health. Old Peter opened wide his eyes,
making occasional replies.

Though thoroughly uneducated, Peter Judson was no fool by any means, and
he had a mathematical way of his own to figure out problems which
confronted him in every-day life. He was plain, but staunch, was glad to
know his neighbor, and hoped he would call often. They were immediate
neighbors, he said, and should be friends: Peter even invited Wade to
come back and take dinner, and Wade accepted, pleased with the
opportunity that should lead him into the family of which he desired to
learn more. He wanted to know their home life, their inmost thoughts,
and he therefore gladly accepted the kind invitation to lunch. Wade
turned to go, but some supernatural power impelled him to hesitate, and
that hesitation brought forth her whom he of all people most desired to
see. Nora, seeing that the conversation between her father and the
newcomer was about completed, stepped out, with flushed face and
throbbing heart, to thank him for the book which she said she had read
and enjoyed.

"I have others," he said. "I shall bring another to you soon."

"Thank ye. Are ye goin' a-huntin' fer game, er what?"

"For game."

"I can show you where ye can git lots of birds."

"That she kin," said Peter. "I most forgot. Jest take mine an' Tom's
guns an' leave yer rifle here, an' that gal'll show ye how ter hunt in
this kintry. She knows ther haunts o' every bird an' every squirrel in
the mountain."

This arrangement was very agreeable to Wade, who accepted with beaming
pleasure, leaving his rifle while he took a shotgun, as suggested by
Nora Judson's father. Wade desired to saddle a horse for Nora, but she
protested stoutly, saying that she could throw a saddle on a horse
quicker than he could, which he readily agreed was true. Together and
happily they rode toward the mountain, with light hearts--they were both
young--conversing as freely as if they had been lifelong acquaintances.
Over the rugged mountain side they rode, sometimes down the little
ravines or nitches, sometimes beside the rough boulders, always side by
side, talking, laughing, joking, until they reached a spot where they
were to hitch the horses and traverse farther in on foot. The sweet wild
mountain flowers waving in the breeze nodded their little dew-dipped
golden heads in the light of the summer sun as they passed them by.

Wade dreamed of their beauty and fragrance as they peeped up from their
rocky beds with a look of entire approval and recognition. He stopped
once to pluck a flower, which he gave to Nora, and which she accepted
blushing. This one simple act carried to her heart, inexperienced as it
was in the ways of the world, greater significance than Wade had meant.
He was so thoroughly unacquainted with the customs of these mountain
people, and didn't know. She was silent for a brief spell,--she was
always very silent when thinking,--then as if impelled by the spirits of
the air she thanked him in her simple, innocent way, while her head
dropped until her chin rested on her bosom.

"I read your book through," she said, breaking the silence, "and hit--it
has done me so much good."

"Tell me about it." They had reached an open grassy spot bordered by
thick brush and tall trees. "Sit here while you tell me something from
your heart."

Wade had not failed to notice that she often corrected herself in speech
at times when she deliberated.

"And the birds?" she asked, looking toward the blue sky with a far-off
expression.

"Never mind them,"--hastily. "We shall get all the birds we shall want
to take home later. Now, let us have one good talk together out here in
the open, on the side of this lovely mountain, where none save God shall
see us or hear us, where we can open our hearts to each other."

She sat down in a manner not unbecoming anywhere, and he sat opposite
her.

"It must be mighty lonely fer ye all by yerself--yourself," she said.

"It is, quite, just now; but I shall have company soon."

She looked up sharply, inquiringly. "When and who?" painfully.

"Can't just tell when, but sometime in the near future."

She was still looking at him questioningly.

"I'm going to have a family on the Redmond farm," he continued; "am
building there now."

She felt relieved.

"Haint ye got a sweetheart back yonder in the big city?" she asked.

He looked into her eyes, but she cunningly evaded the stare.

"Won't you be my sweetheart?" he asked, smiling. He saw the crimson
creep to her face and she lowered her head.

"Ye didn't answer my question," she said softly, head still drooping.

"I have not. I have no sweetheart anywhere. Women never cared for
me"--sorrowfully.

The little brown poppies waved their heads in wild delight, while the
chirping birds sang songs of rejoicing from the treetops, as they looked
upon this peculiar mountain scene.

"What did ye come into this country for?" she asked abruptly.

He smiled.

"You don't believe me. If I should say I came here to rid the country of
the terrible band of destructive Nightriders, would you believe it?"

She started violently.

"Don't say that," she said; "don't ye do it."

"Why not? If I tell you I am here for my health, you don't believe that.
Why not say something equally as ridiculous?"

"Nobody believes ye come here for your health, an' everybody might
believe ye had an idea ye could rid the country of Nightriders. They're
ready to believe anything of a newcomer. They think he's a spy, an' they
mout think anything that they take a notion to think. My warnin' to ye
is that ye better not say that, ye better take it back as a joke right
now."

"You wouldn't tell on me, would you?"

"Ye better take it back."

"I won't take anything back," he said firmly, but smiling.

"Ye frighten me, Jack."

She spoke with all the tenderness of her heart.

"I don't mean to do that. I'm very docile, I'm just opening my life to
you because I--I think I like you and----"

"Ye needn't," she said, blushing. "I know what ye would say. Dad don't
like for the gentlemen to talk to me that away."

"Dad is far away just now, and if I say I like you, Nora, it is because
I do, and your Dad can know that much if he so desires. I do not mean to
deceive him, nor would I deceive you for all the world and this big
mountain thrown in." He peered down into those great dark eyes, which
met his gaze with unflinching, gleaming admiration. "It's so pleasant
here," he added.

"Ain't it pleasant in the big city?" she asked doubtfully.

The outer world now held a certain charm which to her had not been known
before.

"Not so pleasant as it is here on the mountain side," he replied.
"Listen, Nora. In the city you cannot hear the rippling waters as they
dance down the rocky pathway over the hill to the stream beyond. You
cannot listen to the song of the wild morning bird as he cries out in
his great freedom from his lofty perch in yonder tree top; you cannot
inhale the pure fresh air as it glides gently over the brushy way; you
cannot hear the rustling of the dry leaves as you do here, therefore, it
is not so pleasant in the big city."

"Ye gets used to that here," she said.

"You get used to the clanging bells, to the snorting whistles, and to
the dusty, smoky atmosphere in the city, too, but there is still a
difference. There you see people at all hours of the day and night
busily rushing to and fro, this way and that, rushing, pushing, jamming,
nothing more."

"I think I would like that for a while," she said.

"No, you wouldn't. Not long. It is not near so pleasant there as it is
here, and by your side." He slipped his arm around her waist. She made
no effort to disengage it. "It's so ple----"

"What's that?" she said, startled. A rifle shot, followed by a wild
yell, broke the peaceful stillness of the mountain air. She leaned her
head far over and listened. "That's Al Thompson," she cried. "Let's be
a-goin'. When he's that away I don't want to meet him. He's dangerous."
She broke from his grasp and stood erect, listening.

"I have no fear of Al Thompson, nor any other man," he said, rising.
"Where this arm falls power falls with it. I am monarch of the hill just
now."

He was dramatic, and she admired his great physique and brave words.

"Ye don't know Al," she said. "He's been drinkin', an' is not
accountable for his actions, so we'd better be a-gittin'."

"If you have no confidence in my strength," he said angrily, "we shall
go."

She felt a little hurt.

"I didn't mean to," she said slowly, "but I want you to go so's you'll
be safe."

They started off, but before they cleared the opening that hideous yell
broke the otherwise dead silence, and Al Thompson darted through the
thicket like a madman, brandishing his pistol over his head, and with a
roar of anger, cried out:

"I've got ye now, durn ye', an' ye'll never see daylight agin. Hit ther
road, gal, while I lay him out like a dog."

Al was coming nearer and nearer as he spoke. Wade did not flinch, but
stood like a man. Nora stepped in front of him to protect him from the
onslaught, but she was like a twig in the hands of that maddened giant.
He caught her by the shoulder and cast her aside as though she had been
chaff before a strong wind. However, he did not reckon on the powerful
agility of his athletic antagonist, who, before the wild man knew what
had happened, knocked the pistol from his maniacal grasp. One of Wade's
fists then shot out and struck Thompson squarely on the nose. He went
down, grunting under the smart of pain, while Wade stood over him like a
heroic victor, not deigning to strike his enemy while he was down.
Nora's admiration for Jack's daring and skill grew stronger as she saw
him standing there over the prostrate form of his victim, whom he could
have killed had he chosen to do so.

"What ye goin' ter do with me since you got me down?" asked Al
doggedly, not in the least defiantly.

"I'm going to let you get up so I can have the great pleasure of
knocking you down again," Wade replied, with flushed face and animated
voice.

Thompson saw the very streaks of fire as they shot from Jack Wade's
eyes, and he made no effort to rise. He just looked sullenly, first at
Wade, then at the girl.

"Get up, quick, you coward!" exclaimed Wade warmly.

"I'm comfortable 'nough here," replied Thompson. "If I get up ye might
keep your word an' lay me out again."

Jack Wade was not fully acquainted with the mountain laws, the laws as
regarded between man and man, or man and his sworn enemy. No other law
counted for anything with the mountaineers. If any one of those fellows
had got him in the same position, under similar circumstances, they
would not have left enough of him to rise from the earth, in fact, there
would not have been enough of him for his friends to gather up with a
shovel, so utterly thorough would have been the destruction of his
tenement of clay.

Thompson, seeing that he was safe from further attack, contented
himself by saying, "I'll git ye yet."

"Come," said Wade, taking Nora by the arm, "let us now be going. Forgive
me for such unseemly conduct in your presence."

The girl did not seem to understand. Such as she had just seen she had
been accustomed to always, ever since she first remembered anything that
was going on about her. Never before had she heard an apology when one
man knocked another down.

"Ye couldn't help it," she said. After a few moments silence she
continued, "He'll kill ye shore, ef ye don't keep away from him."

"No, he won't, Nora. He won't attempt it again. If he does, well--that's
something else. I presume he is a Rider, is he not?" She did not reply.
"Come, Nora," said Wade pleadingly; "don't be reticent. Tell me all you
can, being consistent, just as I have told you everything--all the
contents of my heart to-day."

She could not resist the appeal. Tears were gathering in her eyes; they
were the first Wade had seen in any eyes for a long time, and his own
heart was touched. She opened her innocent life before him and told him
all she knew. The women folks, however, did not know nearly so much as
they often prided themselves as knowing. She believed he ought to know,
more especially since the incident with Al Thompson, because it would be
a sort of protection to him. He would know what to look for and how to
bear himself.

"They aint a-goin' ter hurt ye, ef I can help ye," she said, sobbingly.

He understood her feelings perfectly well, and determined there on the
wild mountainside, in the presence of the rugged hills and within sound
of the running waters, to protect and aid this unopened wild flower of
the mountain so long as he had power to do so, so long as this power
lasted--so long as he had breath in his lungs.

This vow he faithfully kept. Men do things very often during life for
which they are very sorry, do things which, in more conservative
moments, bring on pangs of regret; but Jack Wade felt not the least
regret because he had knocked down Al Thompson. He did not regret that
act, but a tinge of sorrow and shame ran through his soul as he looked
upon the crimson face of his gentle companion. The advantage he had
taken in her moment of weakness would, no doubt, stand him well in
fulfilling the purpose for which he had quit a life of plenty,--a life
of sociality, and had come to the lonesome hills to live in a cabin all
alone to carry out. The burden of it all was burning his own soul and
gnawing at the very vitals of the life within him. He was a man through
and through, a man who could have gained the topmost heights of the
most elevated, elaborate society, but he had sought instead the quiet
life of the farmer, a life alone in a cabin away toward the hills of
Kentucky, far from civilization. Beside him rode in perfect silence,
broken only by the sound of the horses' feet falling upon the dirt, a
child of the wilds, whose own heart burned her bosom, that heart which
had in an unguarded moment unloaded all that was most sacred to her and
to her own people, all that had been held dear to one who had been
taught in only one way. She felt sorrowful, but that same power which
bound her when Jack Wade was away kept her silent when he was near. The
rocks of the rugged mountain ridge pointed to her as she passed, the
little yellow wild flowers bowed their sweet heads in shame when her
skirts touched them. She would not look at them, their beauty had in a
moment flown. She would not look over the wild mountain scenery; its
picturesqueness had departed. A dead shade rested over everything. She
would not even glance up at the strong man at her side for fear his
powerful gaze might pierce her heart as an arrow shot out from a strong
arm. But why all this sorrow? He knew, he understood, and was silent. He
looked toward her in silent admiration, and his heart smiled, but his
lips moved not. To assure her was his thought, was the only motive of
his heart, but he could wait until a calmer moment. The waters of life
were troubled now, there was a storm upon the quiet sea, whose ruffled,
wind-tossed waves were rolling high, and he must wait.

Behind them was the very hound of the devil, cursing and swearing
uproariously. Every curse was an avowed vengeance, every breath foretold
the death of someone. The murderous black eyes of the mountain wolf
gazed on, the steel-like paws of the forest lion tore the earth where he
lay, the savage instinct of an untamed Indian of primeval days filled
his blood. The heart of the most ferocious beast was encased within his
bosom, and vengeance, sweet vengeance, was his insistent cry. He rose
from the earth where Jack Wade had laid him with that powerful blow of
his heavy fist, snorted like a hyena, shook his fist tragically after
Wade and Nora, then crouched as a panther when about to spring upon an
unsuspecting victim or an awaiting foe, leaped high into the air, and,
yelling like a Comanche on the war-path, darted like a frightened hare
down the mountain side in the direction whence he came, spitting out
fire and brimstone as he ran.

"She's mine, mine!" he shouted, "an' ye needn't think she hain't."

Down the other side of the mountain now rode two beings who seemed
farther apart than before they knew each other, yet whose hearts beat as
one, and who were in reality closer together than any other two human
beings on the great earth.

When Al Thompson opened his lungs and sent forth that unearthly yell
which vibrated through the forest down in the valley, the girl caught
hold of Wade's arm. She quivered, he felt the emotion playing over her
being, and caught the soft hand in his own.

"Have no fear whatever," he said reassuringly. "He is drunk. When he
comes out from under the spell once more, he will think nothing of this
affair."

"Ye don't know him, Jack," she replied. "I warn ye agin', cause----" She
stopped.

"Because what, child?" he questioned, noting her hesitation. "Speak what
is in your heart."

"Because," she continued falteringly, "I don't want ye ter get hurt."

He smiled encouragingly.

"He won't hurt me, but I'll keep a close watch for your sake. If he
gives me further trouble I'll put him in jail down in the village."

"Huh! that jail won't hold him; hit ain't never held a----one of these
mountain fellers yet. That won't do; ye must hold him some other way."

"All right, I'll hold him some way, sure. I want you to feel satisfied
that I am able to do it."

As they were nearing the house they saw old Peter Judson standing at the
gate awaiting their return.

"I've enjoyed this trip with you, Jack," she whispered softly.

"No more than I have enjoyed it with you," he replied feelingly.

"And ther birds----"

"Whar's yer game?" shouted Peter as they rode up, both flushing red.
"An' fer the land sake," continued Peter, "what makes ye look so durn
funny 'bout ther eyes an' face? What in ther world's got hold of ye; air
ye sick, gal?"

She was not very ill, she said. Indeed, she had never felt better
physically, but----

The old man was fumbling through the saddle-bags in search of birds or
other game. Wade could not suppress a smile because of the comical
expression upon the face of the disappointed old man.

"This is ther durndest hunt I ever heerd 'bout in these hills," said
Peter. "A half-day out, an' no game."

"We haven't fired a gun," replied Wade, "therefore have no game." The
old man looked at Wade, then at his daughter. His disappointed
expression was at once superseded by one of anxiety. Indeed, he looked
very sorrowful. "But ye fired one good shot," he said sternly. "An ef ye
intend ter be foolin', I want ter warn ye ter be a-lookin' out. Fun
shots don't go in this hyar kintry." He appeared to be greatly agitated
now, but when he learned the real circumstances he softened, and his
eyes gave forth a tender expression. "Git down," he said, "chuck is put
nigh ready. I'll put yer hoss up'n feed him, an' we'll have a old time
talk 'bout everything, from ther days o' Goliath till ther days o'
corn-huskin',--'bout which ye know mighty little, I reckon, ef I don't
miss my guess a long way, by lookin' at ye."

Old Peter refrained from remarking just at this time anything touching
upon the actions of Al Thompson, but many strange and peculiar thoughts
were romping pell-mell through his heavy brain.




CHAPTER V


Dining at the home of a farmer was quite a new and novel experience to
Wade, as there was no similarity to dining in a fashionable restaurant
on a fashionable street in a large city. This was an experience in his
life that he often thought of afterward. At one end of the table sat
Peter Judson, to his right sat Mrs. Judson. In one corner of the stuffy
little cabin dining-room sat a gray old cat on its haunches, appearing
in every respect to be quite angry because it had been made to wait
until the second table when it had been accustomed to eating with the
family. Wade watched the cat, for it very often "licked its chops."
Beside him lay Rover, the furry-headed dog, Nora's pet.

Jack was just as awkward at that table as the girl would have been had
she been sitting down at a table in the greatest hotel in New York City.
His manners and table etiquette were so entirely different that his
actions did not seem at all right or natural. He sat like a boy who has
been allowed to eat at the first table when his father had company. When
Nora asked if he wouldn't take a piece of the "sow's belly," and he
replied, "Thank you, I wouldn't choose any," she still held the dish
before him until he took a slice. He sipped his coffee daintily, as a
girl at an evening tea, holding the cup by the handle, while his little
finger was extended high, and the girl gave him a cup-towel--"so's ther
cup wouldn't burn his fingers" when he was drinking his coffee. He cut
the meat off his chicken bone with his knife and put it into his mouth
with his fork, causing the girl to blush because he was acting so
ridiculous before her Dad and Mam, when she had really expected so much
of him at this crucial time.

Old Peter would take about half his coffee at one gulp--this was
more natural--making a noise like unto a sawmill when it is thoroughly
busy. Then he would wipe his mouth on his shirt sleeve and take the
coffee off his mustache with a sizzing noise. The climax to this
long-to-be-remembered meal came when Wade put his knife and fork in his
plate and picked up the scraps of bread and chicken bones and put them
carefully alongside the knife and fork. Being unable to understand such
strange conduct, Nora stepped behind Jack and hid her face in a dish
towel. We do not know just what she was doing behind the towel, but
presume she "stole a sweet smile," as her face was very red when she
finally came out of hiding.

They got through the meal, however, after a great length of time had
elapsed, for they conversed about every thing, crops especially and
folks in the city in general. Tom was off toward the village purchasing
supplies and would not return, likely, until late in the afternoon, so
Wade must content himself with listening to Peter Judson for at least a
half-day. This he did, and he listened with growing interest. The old
man knew of things that had happened away back yonder 'afore the war,
and he knew about things that would happen at some future date. He had
lived through one generation of feuds and thought "thar mout be tough
times ahead fer some folks as he know'd of now, an' they hain't fer
away, nuther," he said meaningly. "Why, jest let me tell you somethin',
Wade," said old Peter, bending over and shaking his finger at the
latter. "Way back yonder somewhar in the eighteens we had some mouty lot
of trouble, that we did. Them was ther days when ther white caps or
somethin' done things, and I hain't fergot it nuther, an' what's more, I
hain't never a-goin ter fergit. I hain't that sort--ther fergit'n kind.
An' ye'll find that out 'afore ye air hyar in this kintry much longer.
Ef a man treats Peter Judson all right, he's a-goin' ter git treated all
right back again. Ef he treats me mean, why, he's gotter look out fer
his head, that's all. I kin remember onct away back yonder--I was on
t'other side then--an' was as peaceful a man as lived, when I was a
plowin' in my field an' up comes a feller as fast as he could ride a
hoss, an' says, sayse: 'Peter Judson, yer gotter git out o' this kintry,
an' that putty quick. Ef yer don't, yer neck'll be stretched.' 'Well, I
won't,' says I, 'not till I git good'n ready, an' ef you ner anybody
else thinks as how they kin make me git out afore I want to, let's see
ther color o' his hair. An' I takes ther lines from my shoulders an'
drops 'em down over ther plow handle an' squares myself, thinkin' maybe
he'd want some of it right then an' thar. But no, what'd he do? He up
an' put spurs to his hoss an' digs out down ther road lip-i-ty-clip, an'
I seed nuthin' o' him no more."

The old man paused to let out a great stream of tobacco juice.

Wade threw his left leg over his right knee by way of change, and asked,
"Was there any special reason, Mr. Judson, that this man should have
requested you to leave the country?"

"None. None 'tall, but I left."

"Oh, you did?"

"Yes, siree. I left putty quick after a while. You see, I hain't told
you all of it yet. Them durn fellers come back one night, but I gits
wind of it somehow, an' sends ther family away an' takes everything out
an' puts ther stock in ther pasture,--nuthin's never hid from Peter
Judson,--an' I lays out in ther bushes in a dark spot an' waits
patiently. Long 'bout a little after midnight here they comes, 'bout a
half-dozen strong, an' shot fire into my house an' barns so fast that
afore I know'd what'd happened ther whole business was a flame o' fire.
Seein' as how I couldn't do nuthin' ter save ther things, I jest waited
till they gits through with their cussedness, an' then--what'd ye think?
Afore they know'd what'd struck 'em I sent ther bullets from my
Winchester a-flyin' after them like hot cakes, an' four o' them fell in
their tracks, while ther two got away, an' all their hosses lit out down
ther road, without riders, like lead shot out o' a cannon on ther field
o' war."

The old man spat out another wad of tobacco and put a fresh plug in his
mouth. There was some hesitation before he spoke again.

"You take it rather cool," said Wade, after a short silence.

"Gotter, my boy. Them was terrible times 'round hyar, but ef I
calkerlate right, we air in ther midst o' jest sich another time, right
now."

Old Peter Judson looked squarely into Wade's eyes, forcing the latter to
turn his gaze.

"Ye air a young man, Wade," said Judson, "an' I want ter give ye some
advice, fust class advice, an' yer better take it, too. When ye dig a
hole fer some other feller, be shore ye dig it so deep he cain't get
out'n hit, an' then"--Peter was emphatic--"be shore ye don't git into
that hole yerself. Hit's a durn sight easier, Wade, ter start somethin'
than hit is ter stop it after ye onct git it started. D'ye mind that
now?"

"I believe I understand," said Wade, with a far-away look on his
countenance.

"I'll tell ye agin, young man, that yer Uncle Peter Judson's been
through ther fires o' hell 'round this hyar mountain, an' he knows what
he's talkin' 'bout. Afore mornin' ye'll see that cabin down yonder all
aflames, lickin' ther very sky in an effort ter eat up ther stars."

"What, mine, do you mean?"

"Ther same, boy. Why, what makes yer look so durn funny? Hit's ther
solid truth, God knows, Jack Wade, yer own cabin'll be ashes afore
another sun rises over ther mountain. Ye have made a enemy out'n Al
Thompson, an' nuthin' this side o' hell could stop him from a-killin'
ye, ef ye don't git him fust. Ye needn't git upon yer high spirits an'
think yer kin stop it, fer ye cain't. A fawty-hoss power gatlin'-gun
woudn't stop them savages to-night, so jest be easy an' take it natural
like, an' ye won't feel so bad when hit's all over. Me an' Tom'll go
down with ye after awhile an' help ye put everything out in ther field,
an' move ther stock ter a place o' safety, so's ter fool them fiends
that much--"

"I won't submit to it," interrupted Wade angrily. "I'll kill the man who
tries to burn my property."

"That's what ye kin do, Wade, but ye must wait till some other time. I'd
ruther take that rifle thar an' blow yer brains out'n yer head whar ye
stand than ter let ye go down thar an' git killed without any show
'tall. Don't up an' git mad now. Ye'll see that old Peter Judson knows
what he's talkin' 'bout. I've been in this kintry too long fer to not
know. Ye've made a enemy out o' Al Thompson, an' he's a chip off'n ther
old block, only his Daddy is worse nur him. He's worse nur the old devil
hisself, an' they won't rest till they're torn the earth up around ther
mountain, an' dug a hole deep 'nough ter put a dozen good men in."

Old Peter paused again, while Wade looked down toward the earth with a
troubled expression on his face.

"What's the matter with the law in this country?" asked Wade, although
he knew that law and order were unknown to these people.

"Ther hain't any law," replied Peter. "Ther law tried ter git out here
onct, an' I seed old Jim Thompson kill two officers. I seed it with my
own eyes, an' Tom a-comin' yonder saw him shoot one down in his tracks.
They want no more in town what'd tackle comin' after him, an' he's
still hyar a-doin' business in ther same old way."

Jack Wade was considerably puzzled. Here was an old farmer, who he had
calculated to shoot through the heart some day, now giving him advice
which he thought would save his life--at least would save him much
trouble. Here was a man who had just related to him that the Riders had
at one time swooped down on him and destroyed his home and all else he
had possessed save what he took out to the field; here was a man that
rumor said was one of the very leaders of a band of lawless desperadoes
who sought the lives of all good citizens of the community, now telling
him of a man whose deeds were enough to turn the heart of a less brave
man into a channel of terrible fear. This man was now trying to save his
life, would himself rather put a bullet into his brain than see others
do it or know that others had done so. That was friendship bordering on
love. What kind of a man is he?

The mysteries of the hill deepen, the mysteries of the valley broaden.
The closer he seems to have got to his desired end the further is he
away from it. His plans seem crumbling to decay, his strong heart was
bound in utter weakness. One glance from the firm, dark eyes of Nora
Judson took all the manhood out of his soul. One touch of her finger
tips made weak his stalwart frame. Now he must stand idle, in meek
submission, while his sworn enemies burned his cabin and filled the air
with their curses because they could not find the object of their
vengeance and tear him to pieces bit by bit.

Jack Wade cursed under his breath and bit his lips till the blood
flowed, as he looked down toward his lonesome little cabin home, which
he had come to look upon as a true friend. His heart bounded in his
bosom, his brow corrugated, his eyes danced and gleamed fire as he swore
a second vengeance upon the perpetrators of this intended foul, heinous
crime. The black demons of hell darted before his maddened stare,
laughing joyously, dancing happily, because of his great discomfiture.
He gripped the butt of his pistol, while his eyes lighted on a rifle,
which he snatched up, then started off in lone defense of his own
property. Nora, who had been watching him constantly, laid her hand upon
his shoulder. The touch was like magic upon his wearied soul.

"Don't, Jack," she whispered softly, impressively. "Dad is quite right.
Ye are sure to git killed ef ye go down there to-night."

Nora saw that Wade was filled with emotional indignity. For a moment he
was about to shake loose from her grasp, but he felt her grip on his arm
tighten.

"For my sake, Jack."

He turned and looked into her eyes. The light of real love shone from
them, and a thrill ran through his being.

"For your sake I'd better go," he said.




CHAPTER VI


Mounting his horse, Al Thompson rode rapidly along the ridge of the
mountain, with hot breath of hate steaming from his extended nostrils.
His soul cried out loudly for revenge, and he meant to fulfill its
desires though he brought all his friends into the quarrel. He meant to
murder the man who so grossly insulted him and belittled him in the
presence of the girl who was more to him than his own life, more to him
now than she had ever been before. As the road grew less rugged he
stiffened his pace, beating his horse over the flanks with his hat,
until he finally broke into a dead run. On he went with the breath of
fury still flying from his dilated nostrils, infuriated the more by the
low hanging limbs, until he reached the stream at the base of the
mountain, crossed over and turned up the main road, putting his horse to
his best, when he came in sight of a cabin, the very sight of which
seemed to lend strength to his tired body. He let out a terrible yell
and fired his pistol into the air to attract the inmates of the cabin,
who, upon hearing him and the pistol shots, rushed out feeling that a
terrible calamity was about to befall them. When they appeared in the
doorway Thompson cried out in an old, familiar way: "Git ready. Ther old
rock on ther mountain top--midnight. The cap'n says be thar shore."

"Who's ther victim?" cried one.

"Ther newcomer," answered Thompson.

"What?"

"Shore."

Thompson was off again in a dead run before more questions could be
asked. These cabineers had heard the call from the same voice before,
and in the same manner, therefore did not hesitate to prepare. Thompson
reached another cabin, and went through the same maneuver, and a third,
the resultant effect being the same in every instance. He was quite
satisfied. His lying tongue had done its work and the outcome did not
worry him in the least. His heart and soul joined in crying for revenge,
and it should come at any cost to others.

When the appointed hour of the night had come on, he, waiting until the
last moment, would ride up, driving right through the waiting crowd,
yell like a Comanche, and they would follow willingly. His plans were
working well, his lying heart was satisfied. He snarled like a wolf
which had found a piece of fresh meat.

The night was dark. Heavy black clouds obscured the vision of the stars.
A clouded canopy overhung the entire world, the fierce lightning flashed
and shook its fiery tints over the sleeping mountain. The thunder peals
burst forth in loud report, the echo resounding down deep into the quiet
valley below. Save for the flashing lightning and the pealing thunder
all else was quiet. What a fearful night for a fearful deed! What a
night for the use of a black-hearted scoundrel! What a time for deeds
born of a charred heart!

Jack Wade made no effort to sleep; he did not retire to the bunk in the
little room with Tom Judson. Old Peter did not wish to retire. It was in
his nature to see the alpha and omega of such deeds, he wanted to see it
all. Nora could not close her eyes in sleep, although prevailed upon to
do so. No, Jack Wade's own burdened heart pervaded the quiet atmosphere
about Peter Judson's home, and no one cared to seek rest. Even good old
dog Rover discovered in the funeral-like few about him that something
was about to go wrong, and went about from one to the other whining,
looking questioningly into their faces. Wade walked up and down, to and
fro, like a lion in a cage or a madman in confinement, so intense was
his anger because he couldn't prevent that which Judson had predicted
was sure to follow. He believed now that Peter Judson spoke the truth,
there was no reason, as he could figure, for his speaking anything else.
He believed Judson had warned him from his heart, because he wished to
save his life. Why should this old reprobate of a murderer desire that
he should live at all? He would not have warned other men, for he had
done so at his own peril. The consequences even now might lead to his
own death. The old man, who had been closely scrutinizing Wade's
troubled face, opened his mouth to speak.

"Ye needn't take it so hard, boy," he said. "Ye kin build another cabin
like that in a few days, after ye git ther logs an' lumber out, that ye
kin, shore."

As old Peter was speaking there came even then, down from toward the
mountain way, the wild yell of the Comanche.

"Listen," said Peter, blowing out his light. "Thar ye air now. Don't say
a word nur make any noise. Let 'em go on by, a-thinkin' we air asleep,
an' ye'll see a putty sight soon. The fiends! the fiends! They're bent
on a-killin' of ye right now, Wade, an' gloatin' in their hearts cause
ye air mout nigh dead, so they think."

The well-known clatter of the horses feet came nearer and nearer. Old
Peter stepped up close to Wade and laid his hand on his shoulder
reassuringly. On the other side of him Wade felt the warm breath of old
Peter's daughter, as she hovered close to him. She was consoling him in
her kind, simple way, and he thanked God in his heart that it was so.
Thus they stood, waiting, while the lightning flashed fiercer and the
thunder peals grew louder.

Slowly the rain began to descend. Then suddenly, in that terrible moment
of anxious quietude, there burst forth through the midnight darkness a
faint ray of light which soon appeared a flame of fire, leaping and
dancing exultantly.

"Thar ye air," exclaimed Judson. "Yer cabin'll be in ashes afore
mornin', jest as I told ye awhile ago."

Silently the watchers watched, knowing full well what was in the heart
of Jack Wade. It was useless to try to hold conversation during that
awful period of suspense. Jack watched his little cabin burn, while the
flames, cracking and roaring, seemed to touch his own heart and set it
aflame also. The growing vengeance softened his feelings.

"Let her burn," he said, "but one soul shall burn in hell for this
night's work."

"Mor'n one," whispered Tom Judson.

The significance of his remarks, however, was lost to Jack Wade, who
thought only of avenging himself now. No thought for anyone entered his
heart.

For some time not a word was spoken, only watching; silently watching.
The flames reached high into the air, lighting up the landscape back
toward the mountain and over in the valley, although the cabin was a
small one. The yells of those revengeful men rent the midnight air while
all that was dear to Jack Wade was fast going down to ashes and utter
ruin.

The horses' feet beat a heavy clattering retreat back up the road. When
they passed Peter Judson's cabin Wade slipped noiselessly out into the
darkness, struck the road and started, on foot, rapidly after the fast
retreating horsemen. He knew it would have been folly under ordinary
circumstances to have tried to catch up with them, but he figured they
would soon strike the roughest part of the hill where horses could not
travel fast, and he might by traveling rapidly catch up with them before
they left the mountain road.

Old Peter Judson did not realize what the young man contemplated until
he was too far gone. When he came to a realization of the truth he swore
a blue streak and started out in search of "ther durn fool," who, for
some unknown reason, he had come to like.

Jack Wade could hear the clattering noise of the horses as they rushed
over the rocky way. Fainter and fainter the noise grew until he could
hear it no more. Undismayed, however, he trudged on, in the hope of soon
finding some trace of those he pursued. The heavy raindrops pelted down
upon him, soaking his clothes until their weight became a burden to his
tired and weary limbs. On he went, regardless of distance, picking his
way by the light of an occasional flash of lightning, which made it more
necessary to grope his way when the lightning failed to give the needed
light, until when the gray streaks of early dawn appeared in the eastern
horizon he found himself many miles away from his burned cabin. Yet he
had discovered no trace of the perpetrators of the foul deed, whom he
had followed for almost half of the night.

Water soaked, tired and worn in body and mind, he remembered that he had
not slept for twenty-four hours, nor had he eaten anything, save a
lunch, for nearly as long. Weak and sore of foot, he sat down on a
little hillock and leaned his head back against a boulder to get a
little much needed rest before attempting to start on his return journey
homeward. As he sat thus the dawn grew brighter, the streaks of light in
the eastern sky painting a few clouds a beautiful red. The mountain
scenery was still wrapped in silent mystery. Soon birds began their
chirping songs from their abode in the thickets, and all wild life was
beginning to stir. Dew-dipped grasses began to raise their heads to the
breaking light in obedience to the will of day, while the great heavy
overhanging clouds were fast dispersing, giving way to the power of the
coming dawn.

The strenuousness of the day and night before had weakened Wade's system
until, when he closed his eyes against the growing beauty about him, he
fell fast asleep; but his weary, laden brain kept moving on. Before him,
in vision, the mighty lightning flashed, the great torrents of rain fell
and engulfed him. Suddenly there burst before his darkened vision a
licking flame of fire, from out of the midst of which came one bearing a
long-bladed knife in either hand. He was snarling like a wolf and
dancing jubilantly over his intended victim. The vision grew until the
knives were being brandished over his head, and he knew that it would be
only a moment until they should descend and his own heart would be cut
in twain. He seemed powerless to prevent. The sight was so fearful that
he became sick at heart and fainted away. His head bumped against a
boulder, and he awoke with a start.

When he opened his eyes he saw standing over him in reality Al Thompson,
with hand poised high in the air, ready to descend. In that hand was a
long-bladed knife, sickening to behold.

"Damn ye," said Thompson, between closely clamped teeth, "ye escaped me
somehow last night, but ye won't do it now. Ye mont as well say yer
prayers, an' say 'em quick, fer ye air a goner. I'll tear yer heart out
an' hang it on a pole an' take it back to ther gal."

Thompson raised himself a little higher until he stood on the tips of
his toes, in order that the force of his blow might be felt more
heavily. The knife started on its descending mission of murder.

Wade shuddered, he felt it was his last moment on earth. The
carelessness of falling to sleep bad given his enemy a great advantage.
But no, Fate was to save him. A rifle shot rang out over the mountain
stillness, the knife dropped to the ground, the band that had held it
fell limp to one side. With a cursing snarl and a howl of intense pain
Thompson quickly picked up the knife with his left hand and was about to
plunge it into the drowsy form of Jack Wade. Just at this juncture old
Peter Judson burst through the undergrowth and, in a commanding voice,
cried out: "Drap that knife, Al Thompson, or ye air a dead man right
thar!"

Thompson, looking into the barrel of Peter's rifle, concluded that
chances were against him, and allowed the knife to fall harmless at
Wade's feet.

"Ye'll not be after committin' murder on the mountain to-day," said
Judson.

"So ye're helpin' ther newcomer, Judson, air ye?" asked Thompson
sullenly.

"No, durn ye," replied Peter. "I'm helpin' you, ye fool. I'm seein' fair
play, too. Ye hain't satisfied ter burn up all a feller's cabin, an'
everything else ye kin git at, but ye want ter commit a dogged, dirty
murder right hyar afore my eyes. Ye git, now, Thompson, an' git quick."

Knowing that it would gain him nothing to argue with Judson, Thompson
moved off, holding his crippled hand with the good one. Sending back a
parting shot, he darted out of sight.

"Ye'll regret that act, Peter Judson," he said. Giving each of them a
sullen look, he was gone like a flash.

"Ther dirty wolf!" exclaimed Peter, shaking his fist after the
retreating form of Thompson. Turning to Wade he asked: "What made ye
take sich a fool notion as this, boy?"

Jack replied evasively. "You have saved me, Judson," he said, "and I
reckon my life is in your hands. Do as you like. By my own foolishness I
might have died twice, yea, thrice, in the last twenty-four hours, but
you have saved me."

"What one man does for another is not to be talked about," said Peter.
"Jest ye don't be sich a fool any more. By yer foolishness, as ye call
it, ye have got me in ther same boat 'long side o' ye. I 'low thar'll be
no rest 'bout this hyar mountain till both of us is in our graves, fer
I've waked up ther devil from ther deep o' hell this day shore."

"I'm sorry to have caused you this trouble," said Wade regretfully. "It
may have been better had that snarling wolf----"

"Stop!" interrupted Peter. "Trouble o' this matter is ther kind I like
best. Let 'em tackle us when Tom's got his shootin' irons on an' his
shootin' eye open; he'll pick 'em off as fast as they kin come. Ye mind
what I'm a-tellin' ye, Wade. It's jest as true as what I told ye last
night, only they'll be a little more keerful 'bout ther time they take
ter burn Peter Judson's shanty. Did ye know ye air ten miles away from
home?"

Jack did not know this.

"Well, ye air, an' we'd better be a-gettin' back. Somebody'll bring some
hosses out ter meet us so's we won't have ter walk very far a-goin'
back."

"Must have been a long chase for one like you," said Jack.

"Well," replied Judson, "hit ain't so fer fer me as hit is fer you, I'll
tell ye that, Wade. I kin stand more walkin' right now than any feller
in this kintry. What'n ther world made ye go ter sleep when ye was on
sich a jolt as this?"

Wade turned sharply on Peter. How did he know?

"Don't ax ther question," said Judson, judging of what was on Wade's
mind. "I saw ye a long time afore ye woke up."

They heard the sound of approaching horses farther down the road, and in
a few seconds Tom and Nora Judson hove into view with the mounts.




CHAPTER VII


Jack Wade's new cabin was built much stronger and a little more
elaborately than the old one. It was not at all like the old one, nor
was it put up in quite the same location. It was built some twenty-five
feet eastward and faced the mountain, while the old one had faced just
the opposite. Besides, the new cabin had a small porch attached, while
the front of the old one was plain. Wade sat upon this little gallery,
pondering over the events of the past, much bewildered in mind on
account of the slow progress he had made toward his desired end, toward
the fulfillment of his avowed designs. He was unable to reason out many
things mysterious, one being the deep friendship for him that had sprung
up in the heart of that wicked old man, Peter Judson. It may have been,
he thought, because of the fact that old Jim Thompson had ridden hastily
up to Peter's cabin late one day and yelled to Peter that "they was now
enemies forever, an' ther war would last 'twixt 'em till one or t'other
was dead with their boots on," and Peter needed consolation and
friendship. Old Peter, however, had replied to Jim Thompson:

"Maybe ye want a little of it right now. Ef yer do, jest git down off o'
yer hoss an' I'll give ye all ye want, ye beggar."

Angered to the toes, old Jim struck his horse with the spurs and rode
rapidly away toward the mountain, firing back at Peter as he went. He
would, no doubt, have shot Peter in his own yard, had he not seen Tom
sitting in the cabin door with a Winchester lying across his arms, and
he knew only too well that the aim of the slender youth was true. He
knew well that, as old Peter had said, Tom would pick him off his saddle
before he could even fire at Peter. Discretion, therefore, being the
better part of valor, he bridled his anger and rode away without
deigning to make reply to old Peter's challenge, cursing and snorting,
breathing hot revenge against his enemies.

Wade knew of these circumstances; he knew that his own folly had brought
about these conditions, and it was his human duty to aid the Judsons all
he could, because they had been nothing but friends to him. The gleaming
dark eyes of that girl of the wilds were ever before him, he could not
rid himself of their presence, try as he would. They were an everlasting
companion, and he was not altogether sorry that it was so, for in his
most lonely hours he looked out into the dreamy space and saw them, and
they made him feel less lonely. He had spent much time with Nora,
sometimes at her father's cabin, sometimes hunting over the mountain,
sometimes angling in the brook, and sometimes up the country road
between the two cabins. The old brindle cow had not quit getting under
the wire,--at any rate, she got out very often, and always headed down
the road, never toward the mountain. Probably she was a lazy cow and did
not like the idea of a steep climb up the hill, though the grass was
sweeter up that way. However that may be, she always went _down_ the
road. Constant companionship had drawn Jack and Nora closer together,
and Wade was teaching her in such a kind way that she took no offense
whatever. He brought to her new books to read, which she devoured
eagerly as a child learning its letters.

When she was not busy with some domestic duties, Nora was out in some
nook remote from the cabin devouring the contents of a book. She was an
apt scholar and learned rapidly. She would say "ye" only when speaking
in great haste; other times she said "you." In one book that she read
the heroine was a country girl like herself, and would say "hit" and
"ye" like she did, and she discovered in reading that she was not
properly educated as to the use of language, therefore she applied
herself the harder. She took special delight in this book, and read it
the second time, being greatly pleased with the sweet little character,
the country girl, who, before the novel closed, went off to college in
the big city and, after a few years study, came home refined in manners
and neat in dress. This same country girl was ever afterward her own
model, because she became gentle and kind, and married the millionaire's
son, to the satisfaction of all concerned. Jack Wade was in her mind's
eye the very hero himself. She thought of him as a big-hearted,
generously kind boy, whose sole hope was to benefit someone else, though
he might be personally affected by so doing.

She thought of him as a great wise man who was spending his life out in
the mountains for her special benefit. She thought of him by day, and
when night came on, the hideous night of darkness, when her awakened
soul longed for light, she thought of him. When her body passed into the
oblivion of peaceful slumber she dreamed of him, of the man who had done
so much toward enlightening her mind and soul, who had brought her out
of the darkness and set her upon a high pinnacle of knowledge, where
light shone in on her benighted being and she saw. He had spoken to her
of God, a great God, Maker of the mighty universe, as no one had ever
before spoken to her. The light shone brighter from his eyes as he
talked to her about things of which she had hitherto known nothing. The
song of the little bird in the tree top, the little wild bird, sounded
sweeter than it was wont in times past. Their notes came clearer and had
a new meaning. Her darkened soul opened wide its closed windows and the
light came streaming in until she saw through different eyes. Her
interest in the wild, golden-headed flowers that grew in great profusion
along the ridge of the mountain grew day by day, until she felt she must
plant a garden of her own somewhere near the cabin, so that she could go
out and work among the flowers and talk with them. Her very soul yearned
for something new, something it had not felt before.

She was kind and tender toward her big brown dog, in which she now saw a
true friend. They had always been friends in a way, but that way had
been to kick him and speak gruffly to him. Those things she did no more.
She did not kick the old brindle cow in the flanks and say: "Saw thar,
durn ye! or ye'll git yer head knock off," but the rather she pushed her
gently and spoke kindly to her. "Be very careful, Brindle, don't step on
my toes or turn the milk over, I am not going to hurt you." So the old
brindle cow saw and knew and quit blinking her eyes when Nora was near.
She formerly began blinking when she saw the girl coming out of the
house with the milk pails, because she had grown to expect a crack over
the solid portion of her head before the milking process began. The
consequence of a life of continued abuses was that she had formed a
great habit of blinking both eyes when near one of the feminine gender.
Not so any more. The old cow naturally wondered at the strange, sweet
change, her own life was made the more peaceful because no one set the
dog to biting her heels every time she poked her head around the corner
of the barn, and she did not kick out her "hind" leg every time the dog
came near, because the dog didn't bite her any more. They were good
friends now. A cow has good sense, and can do a terrible sight of
thinking when it comes to the way things are going on about milking
time. Her teats were not whacked with a big stick on a cold winter day
any more because she did not feel like standing in one position so long,
and peace reigned within her heart.

Nora's touch became more gentle and she squeezed the lacteal fluid from
the bovine with more consideration, all the while humming sweet songs
softly to herself, and the old cow heard and knew. She heard Nora say
"father" when she spoke to old Peter. Only on rare occasions would she
spurt out in the same old way with "Dad," and then be sorry because she
had allowed herself to become agitated to such an extent. Everyone noted
the great change, but none dared to speak, lest they should disturb
her--except Tom, who chided kindly occasionally. They all knew and
understood perfectly, and the knowledge was kept secretly in their own
bosoms.

Jack Wade thought of all these things too, as he sat on his own little
gallery looking wistfully toward the big mountain, with heart bowed in
submission to the will of fate. Since his old cabin was burned there had
come a great change in his own life. His desires had changed, his
purposes seemed different, but he fought it all out courageously.
Murderous design was still lodged in his heart. He longed to commit that
deed, which done and within itself is a power to bring a man's soul to
the deepest depths of degradation and sorrow, to the very brink of hell.
His certain knowledge that the savage Al Thompson was only waiting an
opportunity to drive to the hilt the knife that would pierce his heart,
or from ambush send a bullet from a forty-four Winchester crashing
through his brain, weighed upon his mind. These thoughts did not deter
him nor move him one inch from his original motive, which, if life was
spared him, would be fulfilled to the letter. As Wade sat gazing out
through the bright sunlight the big brown dog, Nora's pet, came gliding
silently through the gateway and paced up before him. He looked around
quickly as the dog; wagging his long, hairy tail, stepped upon the
porch.

"What omen have you brought to me this fine day, Rover?" he said,
speaking to the dog, all the while rubbing his hand over the shaggy
head. "What could have caused you to visit me at this hour?"

The dog just continued to wag his tail and lick the big hands that
petted him. Rover had grown to like the big strong young man who was so
often with his mistress, and thought perhaps a call at this time would
not be out of place.

"This country is terribly agitated just now. Rover," said Wade. "You
must watch your mistress closely, and should you think any harm is
likely to befall her, you must come and tell me quick."

The dog wagged his tail, seeming to understand fully what Wade was
saying.




CHAPTER VIII


Up near the mountain no one ever spoke to another concerning anything
that happened. Not a word ever escaped the lips of those sturdy farmers.
If somebody was killed, that somebody was buried by his own people, and
the wailing and gnashing of teeth was confined chiefly to the unhappy
kin-folk. There were none to console them, no one condoled with them,
they grieved in solitude.

In the village it was quite different, though even there no one dared to
speak openly against an individual or a "click" or "clan." The fact that
someone had been murdered by the terrible "Black ghosts of the night,"
or that the settlers had been terrified by the fearful, hideous howlings
of the ravagers of peace, concerned everyone in the village, and old
women talked of it over the fence, old men jabbered about it as they sat
on dry-goods boxes, whittling on the soft pine boxes or squirting great
streams of tobacco juice between their two first fingers, watching it
until it struck the earth some six feet away or flowed gently down the
boot leg of someone standing dangerously near. One old man, fearless on
account of his many years in the country, did say once that "them damn
Riders ought all to be hung by the neck until they were dead." When he
had said that he dropped his head to spit, and when he raised it again
he was alone, every man near him having slipped quietly away, leaving
him to his own way of thinking.

Men gathered together up the valley way, but they talked farm products
straight and "wunk" at each other in a knowing way. There was one farm
upon which an immense tobacco crop had sprung up, and the eyes of every
farmer in the community were cast toward it. Not in many years had so
many men passed that way. Not in many days had there been so many
clandestine meetings over the country, mostly around and beyond the
mountain. What was it all about? It surely meant ill for someone, but
for whom? That was the great question.

Jack Wade had gone to visit the city, Nora Judson was busy with her
domestic duties, and Tom had gone on a jaunt over the hill, while the
warehouse operator remarked to his companion that he had been appointed
special officer, that the regular officers were afraid of their shadows,
and would not move a peg, and the Nightriders were gathering again and
destruction was imminent. It had been mere chance that had put him next
to the business that bid fair to bring much sport, and he was going with
his trusty rifle and faithful horse to see if he couldn't arrest a Rider
before morning. As he was in sore need of a companion, he invited his
friend to accompany him. The matter looked so feasible, and as the
Riders had given both of them so much trouble, he consented to go along
as an assistant to the appointed officer. Of what was to happen he
received perfect knowledge from the warehouse man.

Wade also was deeply interested. A certain barn with its contents of
high-priced tobacco was to be burned by two lone Nightriders, and this
fact--that there would be only two--was hailed with great pleasure, for
the chances would not only be equal, but the advantage was decidedly
with the officers, as they were cognizant of the raid contemplated,
while the Riders were totally in the dark regarding their knowledge or
identity.

The arrangement was that they should meet at a certain place and proceed
out of Guthrie to a given point some distance out and some distance
still on the other side of the mountain. Wade knew the exact spot where
they were to locate themselves in hiding until the Nightriders should
pass, and he also knew what their intentions were after that. His great
longing to learn something more of the terrible Nightriders, and of the
manner in which it was expected they would be handled on this occasion,
caused him to make a hurried trip back to his own cabin to make hasty
arrangements for a long ride through the darkness of night. When his
clock tolled the hour nine he began that tedious lonesome ride down the
valley. Uppermost in his mind was the movements and actions of the
Nightriders, who had become active again and who were threatening with
utter destruction the entire country, composed of twenty-two counties of
the richest soil in Kentucky and Tennessee. Notices had been posted
everywhere, giving warning to the open raisers, stating that no man
should attempt to sell tobacco openly, that he who was not for the
association was against it. One was found on Wade's own gatepost, and he
gave it deep, thoughtful consideration. He had fully intended raising a
very large crop of tobacco the coming season, and he intended doing it
openly, unless his mind should be changed in the meantime.

Wade rode on, putting his horse to a trot, then as time went by, to a
gallop. Had it not been for the brightly shining little stars the night
would have been utter darkness, but the twinkling little heavenly bodies
lighted the way sufficiently well to allow of seeing and keeping the
beaten road. Thoughts concerning happenings of the past were flitting
rapidly through Wade's brain, tumbling one over the other in rapid
succession, in their great hurry to get through, while he traveled on,
unmindful of the awful darkness that encompassed him or of the
blood-curdling deeds which would be committed on that memorable night.
At last, tired and sore, he reached the vicinity of the barn soon to be
burned and the vicinity of a community where murder, foul to some and
gladsome to the hearts of others, would soon be committed.

Jack Wade had learned through his experiences of the past to be very
cautious on all occasions, more especially on occasions like the present
one, therefore he sought out a quiet dark spot in the brush and waited
silently to see what should happen. The distance he had traveled brought
him very late at the goal, so he was compelled to wait not long before
he saw sights enough to weaken the heart of the strongest man.

The little stars twinkled on from their orbits in the sky, the cuckoo
sang from a remote distance, the woodland animals scampered over their
runs, making the dry leaves crack as they flurried on. Suddenly a faint
light arose over the woodland, and grew until it lighted up the whole
country around the anxious watcher. It became so very light where he was
that he was compelled to recede deeper into the underbrush. The great
flame grew brighter and higher, leaping heavenward at every bound,
making a terrible, cracking noise. Wade's heart beat heavily against his
bosom, but he watched on. Not a great way off he heard the cracking of
the dry twigs. It was much heavier than the noise made by scampering
animals, and he knew instantly that the two officers were near. He
continued to keep silent, listening breathlessly to every sound. Soon
there came to his listening ears the heavy sound or clatter of rapidly
retreating horses. The riders passed his hiding-place and on they flew,
pushing their horses to full speed over the rough trail. Then, "Oh,
God!" In the next moment there rang out upon the midnight stillness the
terrible "crack!" of a death-dealing rifle, and in response a boy went
down to the earth heavily. Some mother's idol received a wound that
would take him hurriedly into eternity. His horse sped on, riderless.
Another "crack!" from those rifles and the other horse was killed in his
tracks, falling near the dying lad, while his rider, untouched, unhurt,
darted off into the thick sheltering brush and was seen no more.

Those who had fired the shots that caused death and sorrow, weeping and
wailing, listened not to the wailing of the dying boy, heard not his
pitiful moaning, nor his distressed cry for assistance, but thinking of
themselves dashed off through the brush, to safety, in an opposite
direction. They had _got a Rider_, and were evidently well satisfied
with their night's work. _Fiends_, may the tortures of hell be theirs!

Jack Wade, born with a love for his fellow-man, did hear and heed that
dying wail, and slowly led his own good steed out from his hiding-place
and on to the groaning one. He bent over him and looked into his
contorted face with a heavy, sorrowful heart. He was not dead, but
dying.

"Friend or foe," whispered the youth, as Wade appeared over him.

"Friend," replied Wade.

"Then you didn't shoot me?"

"No. Thank God, I didn't shoot you, lad." Tears were gathering in Wade's
eyes.

"I'm glad you didn't, stranger," said the lad. "I'm Fred Conover, and
I'm dying now. I can feel the cold, clammy sweat of death gathering over
me, my eyes are blinded until all is dark. I know that the death call
has been sounded to me, and I am going, going, but I am dying for a good
cause." He gasped his words now. "Stranger," he whispered, softly, "you
may not be a Rider--you ought to be. You may not be in open revolt
against us--you should not be. Listen, stranger, listen well to my last
words on earth, that you may carry them to the heart of every man in
this community, to the heart of every well-thinking man in the world,
that all the world may know we are right. My father was once a
well-to-do, honest, faithful farmer, but the trusts and combined wealth
put his nose to the grind-stone. I must speak quick. But for them we
could have lived nicely and comfortable. They took everything and
forced--stranger, help the Riders, for in doing so you are helping the
poor people, the struggling millions. You are helping the widow and
orphans, you are helping those who must die of starvation unless the
fight is kept up a few more years. Tell them I died willingly for them,
that my heart is with them in my dying moments; that I shall carry the
burden to God; that I do not hesitate, have no fear, and tell my
father----"

The boy threw his head back, raised his breast, then fell to the earth
once more. Jack Wade raised the lad's head and placed it gently upon his
own limb, that he might remember he died there. The small bottle of
whiskey which Wade took out from town was still in his pocket and he
gave the boy of it to drink.

"I thought that was my last moment," said the boy, after sipping the
whiskey. "I feel quite relieved now. They are mean, stranger," he
continued, with a catching breath. "Those fellows will raise tobacco for
the trusts, and _must_ be handled severely. I do not regret my action, I
do not regret that my last act was to apply the torch to yon burning
building. No, I do not."

Here was an opportunity, Wade thought, to learn something of interest,
so he placed his lips close to the dying lad's ear and asked if he knew
John Redmond before he was killed.

"I knew him well," he replied, gasping for breath, "and he was the
grandest----"

The head fell limp, the boy breathed his last. Fred Conover was _dead_.

Immediately the surroundings took on a death-chamber appearance. Wade
removed his limb from beneath the dead boy's head and laid him gently
upon the cold, damp earth. Beside him was the carcass of the big black
horse which fell dead at the same time the boy went down. They were both
dead. The pall grew heavier. Wade raised himself, looked at the horse,
then into the deathly pale face of the boy, raising his head slowly
until he looked into the heavens, then said:

"O God, Thou great God, Thou hast, through thy mercy, saved me from this
awful deed."

He let his head drop again.

"That was a dog of a deed for an officer to commit," he said mentally.
"It was nothing but cold-blooded murder. Why did he not show himself and
make an effort to arrest, rather than do murder in this fashion, the
dirty coward!" said Wade, with a wave of his head. "You are free just
now, but freedom shall be taken from you for this night's ghastly work,
for this foul deed which has taken from earth all that was dear to a
good mother and father. If you hang"--Wade shook his fist toward the
brush tragically--"the shame and sorrow shall fall upon your own head
and heart."

Throwing his coat over the dead form, Wade drew it to one side and
departed.




CHAPTER IX


Wade was very excited in thought and action as he rode out through the
darkness of the night to go to the home of Fred Conover's father. He had
covered the body with his own toga, and he felt the necessity for it as
he split the cool night air in his great haste to get the news to the
old father, whom he would surely find waiting anxiously to learn what
success the boy had met with. Unmindful of any danger to himself, though
the country was well stirred up, he raced on, looking neither to his
right nor to his left, but kept his sight straight ahead and his
thoughts far beyond. He shook his head gravely as he pondered over the
events that had transpired, were transpiring, and would transpire in the
future. He knew now much more of the conditions confronting the poor
farmers of this part of the world, knew of the terrible struggle into
which they had entered for the mere maintenance of their own immediate
families, knew more of the feelings existing among them, and wondered no
longer that they had taken such desperate means to relieve themselves of
the yoke of bondage which had been placed upon their freedom, to tie
them to the heart-eating trusts, which were dogging out their lives,
eating to the marrow of their bones.

Wade had now reached the rise of the hill. In front of him, a little way
beyond, was a dense thicket through which he must go. He went on,
regarding not the deeper gathering gloom nor the many dangers
accompanying. As he neared the thicket he was suddenly confronted by a
night prowler, who commanded him to halt. This he did immediately,
without hesitation, while he was in his present state of mind, not
desiring an encounter with anyone.

"Git down, quick," said the voice of one who held the bridle at the
horse's head with one hand, while a pistol held by the other hand was
pointed directly at Wade's breast.

For a moment Wade was on the point of reaching for his own pistol and
fighting it out, but as his hand started back he heard the command: "Ye
needn't do that. Ef ye make a move I'll blow yer brains out."

Wade now reached the conclusion that he was being held up by a
highwayman, and the best thing for him to do would be to comply with his
request, for he knew that these fellows in this country, highwayman or
Nightrider, were as desperate in character as the most blackened
criminal the world holds. He got quietly down.

"Now," said the captor, "turn yer back to me."

Reluctantly Wade did this very thing. He had some little misgivings in
doing so, for he might be shot in the back.

Not so. The midnight marauder merely took his pistols from his pockets,
placed them in the saddle-bags and got quietly upon the horse. Turning
to Wade, who stood disconsolate, he said: "I'll return yer hoss,
stranger, an' thank ye fer the use o' him, till I can git one o' my
own." Then he galloped off as though nothing had taken place, never
looking back again.

Awe-struck and indignant, Wade stood beneath the shining stars for one
moment just as he had been left, gazing intently after the fast fleeing
horse and his mysterious rider, then resumed his journey on foot. He
reproached himself that he was a great "mummy," that he had come into
this country on an errand of revenge and had placed himself more than a
half dozen times right between the jaws of his enemies, between the
snapping jaws of death. He figured that fate must have thrown a strong
guard around his life to save him for a special purpose. All these
thoughts came into his mind as he trudged weary and footsore across the
rugged country, picking his way as best he could under the
circumstances.

Instead of trying to make his way direct to Conover's farm, he turned in
the direction of his own home, and at some time just before daybreak
pulled up at Peter Judson's gate, where he "helloed" until old Peter,
with rifle in hand, showed himself at the door and cried:

"Who air ye, that wants ter bother a feller at sich a time o' ther
mornin'?"

"Wade," came the reply.

"Oh!" exclaimed Peter. "Come on in, boy. What'n thunder brings ye at
sich a hour as this?"

"Didn't you see the fire?" returned Wade.

"Sure. Did ye think I didn't know it would be?"

"I didn't know," replied Wade, "but I thought I'd tell you that Fred
Conover has been killed, and----"

"Thunder, ye say!" interrupted Peter. "Thunder, ye say!" he repeated.
"What do yer mean by tellin' me that, Wade; is it really true?"

"It is really true, Judson, and I thought I'd come by and get Tom to go
over to Conover's with me to give the news."

"Ye needn't, Wade; they'll have it long afore ye kin git thar with it,
an' besides ye cain't git Tom fer anything fer awhile. He's been shot
through ther leg."

"What!"

"It's true, too, Wade. I told ye what'd happen when we went after them
Thompsons. It's war ter ther death 'twixt us, shore. Tom met old Jim
an' 'nuther feller over ther hill ter-day, an' ther fun commenced right.
They both opened fire on Tom, but he didn't budge a step till he'd
throwed old Jim flat o' his back, an' he'd a-throwed t'other feller,
too, ef it hadn't been fer that sneakin' Al, who slipped through ther
woods like a snake a-crawlin' on his belly, an' let in on him, an' shot
him through ther leg. Seein' he was shot an' bleedin' putty bad, Tom lit
out fer home, 'thout seein' what'd happened after the smoke o' battle
cleared away. Me an' the good gal, hyar, a-hearin' of ther shootin',
pitched out over ther hill with our Winchesters, jest ter git a little
o' ther fun while hit was a-goin' on, an' we seed Tom a-comin' an'
a-fightin' back, with his shot leg a-hangin' loose over the hoss. Me an'
Nory give a Comanche yell what they knowed, an' when them durn fellers
heered us they turned heels an' took out t'other way 'bout as fast as ye
ever seed anybody git over ther mountain in yer life."

Peter Judson told of these circumstances as unconcernedly as if it had
been play. It was real fun to him. The noise of battle suited him much
better than the quiet of peace. Turning to Wade, he asked, "What did ye
do with yer hoss?"

"Someone held me up and took him from me," Wade replied.

"Ye don't know these people yet, Wade," said Peter, after a moment of
silence. "Don't ye know that hit was Fred's pard what tuck yer hoss? An'
he's done spread ther news over ther whole kintry by now, an' long afore
ye got out o' ther woods. Ye needn't bother 'bout goin' over. Ther old
man'll be so wild when he hears o' this that he'll want ter kill every
feller he meets. Ther committees what sent them two boys out on that job
oughter have their own necks strung up ter a tree, that's shore. That's
what oughter happen ter them. Now, yer needn't worry, Wade. Ye'll git
yer hoss back all right. I'm shore o' that, an' ther shootin' irons,
too. Seems like hit ain't no use fer ye ter have any shootin' irons,
'cause ye never have used 'em, yet, have ye?"

"Doesn't look as though I have any great use for them."

"No, hit don't, Jack. But ye mout use 'em sometime. Better have 'em
along anyhow, when ye meet a Thompson, 'cause ye air shore ter need 'em
then. Now, Wade, I reckon ye hadn't better git angry 'cause that boy
borried yer hoss. Hit won't do ye any good, an' hit mout do ye harm.
Ye'll git him back agin. Tom won't be sore long, an' when he gits well
'nough so's he kin git 'bout a little, ye kin listen out fer ther crack
o' rifles in good shape. Come on in an' we'll git somethin' ter eat,
after hit gits good'n daylight. I want ter have 'nuther talk with ye,
sorter face ter face like, afore ye leave me agin. This durn kintry is
stirred up from ther top o' ther hill ter ther bottom o' ther creek,
an' then some on t'other side, an' ye'll see some hot flames, one after
t'other, an' hear o' how hell is raised, an' see many fellers turn up
their heels afore long, ef I don't miss my guess putty bad. Them trust
fellers is determined ter drive us all out o' ther kintry, or see us go
ter ther graves as poor as Job's turkey--however poor that was--an' they
do say that they was mouty poor; but, by gad, they'll have a tough time
a-doin' of it! Ther bother of a feud with old Jim Thompson an' his mean
gang hain't nuthin' long side o' what's a-goin' ter happen 'bout hyar
soon. Ther worst o' ther whole thing, Wade, is that ther air so many in
ther association what'll raise terbacker fer ther trusts. Them's ther
fellers as is ther hardest ter go up agin, an' ther ones as oughter have
ther neck broken. They'll sell ther stuff fer three an' six cents a
pound when they mout as well git eighteen an' twenty fer ther same
terbacker; but no, they'd ruther go ahead agin everybody an' agin
therselves, an' sell cheap. They'll have a time a-sellin' that terbacker
this year fer that price. We cain't raise terbacker fer five cents a
pound an' come out even, let alone makin' a livin' out'n it. Ther durn
fools!"

Old Peter Judson generally warmed up when talking over the tobacco
situation, and he cared but little to whom he was talking, nor who heard
him, when he used rough language. His greatest expression was "Ther durn
fool!" and when he exclaimed in that fashion he was generally done with
that subject or person.

"They'll git ther fill of it all right this season," Peter continued,
after a pause, wherein he caught a second breath, "they'll git plenty of
it. Why, let me tell ye, Wade, what happened one time, an' I'm a-tellin'
ye fer yer own good. I don't want ye ter git yourself inter that deep
hole what I told ye 'bout one day, ther time I told ye a feller mout git
inter his own hole, remember?" Jack did remember. "Well," continued
Peter, "there was a feller onct,--an' he's over t'other side yet,--by
ther name o' Mike Donovan. Mike is a old Irish settler, 'bout ther fust
ter come hyar. Ye've heerd o' him, no doubt. Well, he tuck a hot Irish
notion in his thick head ter run things his own way 'bout hyar, but ther
balance o' ther farmers wouldn't have it that way 'tall. They tried
their level best ter git old Mike to join the association, but he got
hard-headed an' said he'd be durned ef he joined any sich association o'
fools as was scattered 'bout this valley; that he'd raise as much
terbacker as he wanted ter hisself accordin' to his own feelin's in
that, an' he'd sell hit ter who he wanted, an' fer what he wanted ter.
Now, Wade, ye know well 'nough that ther farmers cain't go agin sich
hard-headedness as that an' win out, 'course ye do. Any fool'd know
that, so they begged him ter quit his foolishness an' join ther
association like a good feller, an' git more fer his trouble o' raisin'
terbacker; but ye know how a Irisher is on that point. They won't give
in ter nobody fer nuthin'; so he wouldn't come in. Well, in the course
o' time he done like he said he would do, an' raised a big crop o'
terbacker. He had a notion that he'd fool everybody 'round hyar, an' he
did try it. A committee was 'pinted ter call on him once more an' ax him
fer to quit, but he wouldn't. He went on an' raised ther terbacker an'
made open threats that he'd take it ter town on a certain day, in
wagons. He tried it all right. Ther committee, ter give him 'nuther
chance, called on him agin, an' tried ter git him ter keep his terbacker
in his barns fer a little while longer, but he just perlitely told ther
committee that they could go ter 'h,' followed by an 'e' two 'els.' Now,
Wade, that feller loaded nine wagons with good terbacker an' started off
to Hopkinsville with it."

Peter Judson paused again for new breath.

"Did he get there with it?" asked Wade interestedly.

"Git thar, did ye say, Wade, git thar! Ye durn fool, d'ye think them
farmers'd have their plans spoiled by that old hot-headed Irisher? No,
he didn't git thar with it. Do ye mind ther old-fashioned zigzag rail
fences in some parts o' this kintry?"

Wade remembered having seen them.

"Well, at a certain turn in ther road whar ther fence is built out o'
'em, a powerful gang o' good farmers met Mike Donovan an' his fine train
o' terbacker, an' axed him ef he wouldn't please be so kind an' turn
back with it an' store it in his barns a little while longer. 'No,' said
Mike, 'I won't,' an' he whipped his horses an' said, 'Git up!' But them
horses couldn't budge a inch. 'Turn back,' said ther leader. Mike jest
sot thar an' never moved. All ther time men was a-gittin' them rails off
that old rail fence an' a-pilin' 'em up in ther road. Still ther
stubborn Mike Donovan wouldn't turn back. They kivered him with a
forty-four Winchester, while one wagonload o' terbacker was piled on
ther rails. 'Will ye turn back, Mike?' they asked. Mike said never a
word. 'Nuther load was piled on ther rails, an' a row o' rails on top o'
that, an' they axed Mike agin ter turn back. He jest stood thar
a-sullen. Every load o' terbacker was piled on ther rails, one row o'
rails an' one load o' terbacker, an' still old Mike wouldn't give in.
Well, ye kin guess ther rest, Wade, cain't ye? No? Well, that was one o'
ther puttiest fires I ever seed, an' ther air was so full o' pure
terbacker smoke that some o' them told me they didn't have ter smoke
their pipes fer three or four days after that fire. All they had to do
was to git out on their porch, raise their head a little an' draw in a
good long breath, then spit her out, an' they was done smoking fer a
while. Mike Donovan--did ye ax what 'bout him, ther durn fool? Course he
turned back, but he didn't have no money, nur any terbacker ter store in
his barns."

Daylight was approaching and Peter, looking in the direction of Jack
Wade's cabin, exclaimed, "Thar's yer hoss now, Wade."




CHAPTER X


Is the longing of the human soul but a delusion? Does it catch the
fragrance of immortality, as the little honeybee catches the fragrance
of the dew-dipped mountain flowers, and reach out with a longing far
beyond human ken?

Jack Wade sighed as he sat out on his little porch gazing through the
sunlight to the eastward. Far away, yet not so far, loomed the outline
of the Cumberland, as a shadow rising out of the mist, towering above
the lesser mountains nearer. All round him in his own community men were
making silent and cautious preparation for some unknown deed. Beyond the
hills, where the agitation was greatest, men were making preparation for
terrible destruction. Orders were being sent hurriedly through the
country, the courier being unknown and unseen.

Wade knew that the messenger of destruction, if not death, was "the
Wolf, Night-Watch," the very person whom he had long been looking for
and feeling for, but to no avail, for he had found him not. The very men
whom he would have at one time killed on sight, had he known then as
much as he did now, were those who had on more than one occasion saved
him from death, men whom he now believed had wound themselves so
thoroughly about his heart as to cause him to love rather than hate
them. Through his mind ran thoughts of things that had been done so long
as to be almost forgotten by others, but they clung to his memory as a
reminder of what men would do again. In his heart was nothing but hatred
for the man who shot Fred Conover to death, and he would far rather put
a bullet through his heart than any other man he knew, even Al Thompson.
Thompson, he knew, was always somewhere about looking for him, that he
might put a bullet into his brain or a knife into his heart.

Wade was to the Judsons a seemingly fast friend, and therefore must be
firmly against the Thompsons. Regarded in this light, it was only
necessary to meet one of the avowed enemy and someone would go out of
this world of trouble.

Time passes swiftly over our heads. It won't wait for any human being.
The pace of humanity is entirely too slow for old Father Time, who only
looks once as he glides swiftly on. Things can't all happen in a day.
Sometimes one could look out through the darkened gloom and see away in
the distance the brightness of a flame leaping high and sending great
sparks heavenward. Some poor deluded human being, some weak human being,
was no doubt losing all of his earthly possessions--his tobacco crop.
Sometimes one could listen out over the star-lit earth, when all else
slumbered peacefully in the very arms of nature, and catch the faint
report of a rifle shot; and had he been nearer to the scene of the
conflict could perhaps have heard the groan of a dying soul as it made
its last farewell gasp and flitted into eternity. Such is life where
strife and turmoil are uppermost in the human heart and mind.

Wade looked back for one moment over the vast expanse of the past and
saw all; then he closed his eyes and looked into the future. It was all
blank; his mind kept to the present. For one moment he was gazing into
the dark eyes of Nora Judson, the next into the translucent waters of
the little brook on the banks of which he had sat whiling away many
happy hours beside the girl who was such an ardent student of nature,
and in whom he had never dreamed there could have been so much hidden
beauty and real wisdom. Slowly had she ascended the ladder of knowledge,
through his personal instructions and the books he gave her, until she
stood on the last round on the tips of her toes, reaching far out into
the unknown in eagerness to grasp what she believed lurked there. She
was fit to be a queen, to be the companion of the highest man in the
land.

On the other hand, Wade had gained no actual knowledge nor wisdom. He
had, however, gained a knowledge of nature which could not have been
impressed upon him through the mere reading of books. He had gained a
knowledge of the great necessity of higher education; he had gained a
certain knowledge of how desperate men would struggle for what they
believed was rightly their own, how they would lay down their lives for
the principles which they thought were just and true. Such knowledge is
well gained, and assists the educated and enlightened to a higher plane
of equal thought. The person who never reads has no knowledge of what is
going on in the outside world, and we dare to say that the person who
reads only knows nothing of the great struggle going on in the hearts of
the down-trodden farmers whose lives have been made burdensome by the
great evil, the greatest of all other evils, the powerful trusts, trusts
which hold at the throat of every farmer a great, sharp knife, one so
sharp that it is useless to move forward or backward lest life become
extinct. The farmer does not stand alone in the path of this terrible
evil, though he has taken the brunt of the battle in an effort to
unburden all humanity of the awful weight of this heavy yoke, bearing
down on the poor of the entire country with such crushing force that the
time has come when one can hardly maintain an existence so strong is the
yoke and so securely has it been fastened around the necks of humanity
everywhere.

Jack Wade thought of all this, thought of all that had happened. Above
Tom Judson was lying in bed with a bullet hole through the fleshy part
of his left leg just below the thigh. Across the brook old Jim Thompson
was lying in bed writhing in agony because of a bullet hole through his
right shoulder. This was the result of conditions brought about by the
everlasting drudgery of mankind.

In both cases the patients were rapidly mending, the danger point long
since having been passed, and each was cursing the other and swearing
revenge. Wade sat with heart and head bowed, therefore did not know of
the approach of Rover, his good friend, until he felt his furry head rub
against his hand.

"Good friend," he said, looking into the eyes of the great brown dog,
"when you come to see me in this manner I always look for disastrous
results. What can it be now, old friend? Is your mistress well, or has a
calamity befallen her? Is her brother worse, or what has happened?"

The dog wagged his tail in a friendly fashion. Suddenly he looked toward
the road and barked. Wade glanced hastily in the direction indicated by
the dog's head and there, grazing leisurely beside the fence, was the
old brindle cow, the cow that had in times past brought him in close
touch with the once wild flower of the valley. A spark of joy leaped
into his sorrowful heart, for he knew that the mistress of the valley
would soon come in search of the cow, and he would be happy then. With
eyes cast in the direction of Peter Judson's home, he still sat
thinking, just thinking, unconsciously smoothing the hairy head of the
good old dog Rover, who seemed perfectly satisfied to sit on his
haunches and listen to the tinkling of the cowbells as the cows munched
grass lower down in the valley. Roundabout the little wild birds were
singing sweetly in their freedom, their joyous notes swelling through
the gathering gloom. No thought of trouble was in their hearts, no
sorrowful gleam came from their eyes. All was bright sunshine in their
lives. What if some poor wanderer was going to be murdered that night?
What if some luckless farmer should have his home burned from around him
or his horded tobacco and corn destroyed? What if some child or its
mother should wail out their sorrowful notes of discomfort and grief
before another day's sun shall have risen? Those things are nothing to
the lonesome little bird, which would continue its silent slumber
through the awful din of fire-fraught flame, or through the loud reports
of many rifles, or the yelling of the infuriated Riders as they rode
hastily through the midnight darkness on to do the terrible deed and
bring suffering to many unsuspecting victims. Those things were nothing
to them; they sang on gleefully. But the harmony of their song soon
died away, for there came through the stillness of the moment the soft
sweet tones of Nora Judson's voice as she wended slowly down the road in
search of old Brindle. Rover flopped his ears and wagged his tail, while
a gladsome whine emanated from his throat.

Wade, followed closely by Rover, went out to the road to meet Nora. Jack
smiled as he extended his hand; she smiled also, then laughed heartily,
the echo resounding down through the woodland and back to the hills.

"Are you going to assist me to drive the cow home?" she asked sweetly.

"Provided you don't get in a hurry," replied Jack.

She didn't blush as she used to on occasions of this same nature, though
she was a little shy. Her face was as beautiful as a newborn rose, and
her hair was done up like a schoolgirl's is done when she expects to
have company; her skirt was not of the tattered and worn variety that
she wore when old Brindle made her first escape, and her slippers were
tan--those Jack had brought as a present. They fitted her trim foot
nicely. Her ankles were covered with lisle thread hose, not homespun
cotton, like she wore when Wade first saw her. He now stepped to her
side, and together they rounded up old Brindle, and soon had her headed
homeward.

When Wade looked into Nora's smiling face he knew that he was an ardent
lover, and he fully concluded he would never do one thing to offend her.

She looked into his face, her own beaming with joy.

"I'm never in a hurry to leave you, Jack."

"Thank you. Will it always be just so, Nora?"

"Always--that is, so long as both of us are alive, but----"

"But what? Don't hesitate, speak out."

"But times are fearful now. Tom will be out in another day or two, and
then----"

"And then?" repeated Wade, although he felt it was not necessary for her
to finish the sentence.

"And then," she continued, "something terrible may happen. Tom fumes all
the time, cursing the luck that threw him so long idle, when he could
have been doing so much. And then," she said again, looking tenderly at
him, "your life is in imminent danger. You should keep a close watch at
all times on Al Thompson. He hates you, and is only waiting for an
opportunity to kill you. Will you keep a close watch, Jack?"

"I shall keep a close watch. Not that I have any fears of death, or that
Thompson will kill me, but for your sake."

"For my sake, Jack? For my sake only?"

"For your sake only. Let me tell you, little girl, I have but one hope
this side of heaven, but one longing. The hope is for you, the longing
is for your happiness. Don't you know that you have transformed my life?
Once I was a raging lion, to-day I am meek and lowly. The only ray of
hope within me was transplanted by your own life. I have studied you
from the beginning of your growth until you began to bud, and on until
you were a full-grown flower; how, then, can I help but be interested in
you? You have torn from my heart most evil designs."

"Were there ever such designs there, Jack?"

"Once, yes. None now. I have much to tell you at some more opportune
time; not now."

"If I may venture to say it, I am very glad to have been an assistance
to you, because you have been as a shining light to my dark pathway from
the first time we met. Dear old Brindle," she said.

"Dear old Brindle," repeated Wade softly. "And now we have old Brindle
home again, and we must part, though not forever, I hope. Tomorrow, if
all goes well through the night, I should like to take you over to the
brook fishing. Will you go?"

"We might be endangering our lives to go over there just at this time.
That is Thompson's territory, don't you know?"

"Yes, I know; but what's the use to go through life full of fears for
what we might meet? The obstacles which we naturally encounter are so
nearly insurmountable as to discourage us, so therefore let us not look
forward to those which _might_ confront us."

"I shall admit that the natural ones are many, but caution is what has
been taught me. We should be grateful to God that they are not more
numerous."

"Will you accompany me, then?"

"I shall, if all goes well to-night."




CHAPTER XI


There is a certain charm about the hills that will in time take away
from one that feeling of loneliness which always exists in the heart of
one who has not been long about them. This charm turns the rugged hills
into things of rare beauty, the misty valley into a dream, and peace and
contentment finally take hold upon a life that before had been nothing
but sorrow and grief.

Jack Wade was no longer lonesome in his lonely little cabin in the
foothills, he no longer felt the pangs of that sadness which had
hitherto shot over him to cause him to feel like giving up his plans and
returning to civilization. There were many reasons for this peace and
contentment. The greatest of them was that old Peter Judson and his
entire family had done so much to aid and assist him and to drive away
all loneliness, and for this cause they had endeared themselves to him.
It was now a pleasure to Wade to rise very early in the morning and
glance out through the breaking day toward the Cumberland, and watch the
mountain grow through the dewy mist until she was plain to view. It was
even a pleasure to him to watch her disappear with the departing day.

So when he bade Nora good-night he went down to his own cabin with a
light heart, still followed by the good brown dog, Rover, which had
taken up with him so firmly that he went home only when Nora blew the
horn. He always obeyed this call, and trotted off gayly, but when the
morning light appeared he was back again lying on Wade's little porch as
comfortably as he desired to be. Wade was very glad of the dog's
friendship, for he helped to dissolve the terrible gloom that sometimes
gathered over him. He took great delight in talking to the dog while he
was preparing his meals, and never forgot to put in an extra allowance
for Rover.

"Now, Rover," he said, "you like your eggs better raw, perhaps, and no
doubt, if you have been getting them at all, you have had to take them
that way; but this is quite a different hotel, and you shall have to
cultivate a taste for fried eggs, as that is the way I like them best,
and that is certainly the easiest and quickest way to get them
prepared."

Rover whined and wagged his shaggy tail.

"In this country, Rover, old boy," continued Wade, "where every fellow
is looking about for someone he can kill, a fellow, if he would eat at
all, must get his lunch the quickest way he can; so you must not be
angry if you must eat fried eggs."

Rover gave a low bark, seeming to understand fully. He watched the
preparation of the meal with pleasure. When Jack moved to another part
of the room Rover trotted quickly over there, as though he feared some
portion of the work would be lost to him. When Wade stood over the
little stove Rover was there looking longingly up at him.

"Now," said Wade, "you don't like coffee, Rover, and there is where you
are lucky. You are wise not to drink it. I ought not to drink coffee,
but how could I stand the strain of all that I look for should I not
take some stimulant? I don't drink whisky, Rover--that is wrong for a
fellow to do; I don't chew tobacco nor smoke a pipe, so what? I must
drink coffee. Some men say that man is so constituted that his system
calls for a stimulant; but I don't believe that, Rover, do you? Now here
you are, old friend, a nice slice of good bread made by your dear
mistress, a piece of bacon, and a whole egg fried. My, what a lunch for
an old dog which has not been used to anything but kicks and curses all
his life!"

Rover barked gleefully while Jack put a tin platter on the floor and
placed the food into it, and they ate in silence.

After the meal was over Jack went out to sit awhile on his little porch,
while Rover dropped down at his feet. They had not been comfortably
seated very long when Rover rose to a sitting position and looked in the
direction of his home. Wade knew from his anxious look that he had heard
something. In another second the long, loud blast from Nora's horn came
trembling through the night air and reached their ears.

"What's that for, old dog?" Jack spoke to Rover. Then the sound came
again, and Rover bolted off without further ceremony.

Wade arose and stood for a moment listening. It was peculiar that the
dog should be called at night unless he was badly needed. As he
listened, Wade heard two distinct rifle shots coming from the direction
of Peter Judson's home. "Something up," he said, gathering his own rifle
and starting out, meaning to go up and learn what the trouble could be.
Instead of taking the road, Wade went out through his own pasture and
through Judson's field. The old man had taught him caution, and he knew
how to use it. He went on as hurriedly as possible until he reached
Judson's horse-lot, then he began to peer about. He could see Peter
moving about in front of the light at the house, but nothing strange
appeared to be taking place. Then he saw old Peter come to the door and
look eagerly toward the road.

"What's the trouble?" asked Wade, from behind.

"I thought that'd bring ye, Jack," said Peter, turning quickly, "and ye
fooled me, too. Ye air gittin' 'long all right, now, boy. Well, they's
a-goin' ter be so much fun ter-night that hit jest looked like I
couldn't help axin' ye fer ther fust time ter jine us. Ye see, Tom
a-bein' a little sore, hit'll make ther road seem a little lonely to me,
an' ef ye want ter see ther fun ye kin take Tom's big black an' come
'long with me. Have yer got yer little shootin' irons 'long?"

"Nothing save my rifle," said Jack wonderingly.

"Well, ye kin use Tom's, an' they air as good as ye kin find in this
kintry. Ye hain't a-feered, air ye?"

"I fear nothing," said Wade; "but I'd like to know what's up. I don't
want to run into anything that won't be good for me."

"Go with him, Jack," said Nora. "You'll see the fun, sure."

"Yes," said Peter. "Ther hosses air ready, an' I'll tell ye all 'bout it
while we go 'long. We have ter travel nearly to the Tennessee line afore
midnight, so les' hurry."

Wade buckled the pistols on, mounted the prancing horse, and started out
somewhat dubious as to the fate of himself. He had learned to trust old
Peter fully, however, and there could possibly be nothing to fear from
him. Beside, Nora had told him to go along, and there could absolutely
be nothing harmful to him in going.

"Ye see, Jack," explained Peter as they rode rapidly toward the big
mountain, "I told ye t'other day 'bout them durn scamps what'd jine ther
association an' then do all they could ter throw it down. Them's ther
biggest scoundrels what we have ter deal against. They're the snakes in
the grass, an' we don't ever know jest whar they air at. We cain't put
our fingers on 'em when we want 'em, but ever now an' agin' somebody
runs agin' 'em, an' that's what's up ter-night. We air a-goin' ter flog
one o' them fellers now. Ye see that dark-lookin' spot up ther road?
Well, them is 'bout fifteen horsemen. Now git that cap out'n Tom's
saddle-bags an' draw hit down over yer head,--hit'll fit yer,--an' don't
say 'nuther word from now till I ax yer to. When we git yonder that
black bunch'll move out an' nobody'll say anything. Jest keep a-goin',
an' ef ye git lost from me, say nothin', but keep a-goin', and I'll find
ye. I won't have ter show ye any more after ter-night, I 'low. Now keep
quiet."

Old Peter almost whispered the last sentence. Jack Wade understood and
kept quiet, as he had been instructed. When they rode into the black
mass one wild yell from those strong-lunged farmers rent the air, and
everybody for miles around knew that some farmer somewhere was nearing
the danger line. The swift ride through the cool night air was
exhilarating, and the excitement, being entirely new to Wade, was just
to his liking. He had been unconsciously drawn into a midnight raid with
those hated Nightriders. When it dawned upon his mind that he was
actually taking part in a great midnight raid, and would soon witness
cruel treatment from the hands of those he was aiding and abetting, a
cold chill ran over his frame. Still, the punishment was going to be
meted out to one who, in an extreme moment, was about to do a thing
which would affect every man, woman, and child in the whole country. He
would sell his tobacco for a price which would not permit a living, and
he must stop or suffer the consequence.

They rode until it seemed to Wade that the foaming horses must drop from
sheer exhaustion. That was impossible. They were used to such trips, and
could no doubt keep up the pace for many hours. Supreme quiet reigned.
There was no sound save that made by the clatter of many horses' feet
striking the soft dirt. When they passed some quiet farmhouse, where all
was silent within, a dog would bay loudly or set up a terrifying howl,
which could be heard until they were far beyond.

The moments soon turned into hours. Finally they drew rein in front of a
large farmhouse. Jack thought, as he looked at it through those
peep-holes in his cap, that he had not seen such a large and handsome
place since he arrived in the country. Barns and out-houses were
plentiful, trees and shrubbery were plentiful. This was the home of a
more wealthy farmer. They were now awaiting a signal from the leader,
when every pistol should be fired into the air to intimidate the
sleeping victim within.

Someone spoke. "When I fire," he said, "then you can all fire; but no
man must fire mor'n once."

The dog in the back yard had now made the discovery that someone was
about to intrude upon his master's domain and, faithful dog that he was,
he dashed out to face the enemy alone. When he reached the front,
yelping and baying, the signal gun was fired. The bullet struck the dog
squarely in the forehead, and with a short yelp he fell dead. Almost
simultaneously other pistols were fired, yet not so simultaneously as
not to be discerned separately. The Riders, who knew their business so
well, quickly separated and surrounded the house. From within came the
victim, who, when he heard the shooting, suspected immediately that
danger lurked near, and darted out of the house intending to make his
escape by the back way.

He was caught by the strong hands of two farmers, who lead him out to
where their horses stood, followed by others. No one spoke a word. The
spectacle was new to Wade, who followed on in silence. The victim was
lead out to a strip of woodland, where he was stripped of every stitch
of clothing, bent over a fallen tree trunk and--it is too horrible a
tale to tell. The vividness of it will stand forever in the minds of the
few. No, he was not murdered, but worse. The great leather straps with
holes in them were far worse than bullets from a forty-four gun. Mr.
Openraiser begged for mercy like a child. He promised that his tobacco
would not be sold, and he would be a good obedient member in the future.
It was afterward learned that he kept his promise.




CHAPTER XII


Some one laid his hand gently on Wade's shoulder. "Come on quick, now,"
he whispered softly, "don't make any noise."

It was Judson. Wade followed on silently. No sound broke the stillness
of the early morning, save the clatter of the horses' feet. Far to the
left of them the clatter was dying out; to the right of them the noise
was growing fainter; no sound came from old Peter Judson. The only
immediate sound was that made by their rifles as they clanked against
the brass parts of their saddles. The twinkling stars shone on,
undisturbed by anything that had happened. Those two Nightriders, Judson
and Wade, rode on for several miles without the exchange of words.
Finally Peter, concluding that there was no danger, jerked the cap from
his head and stuffed it into his saddle pocket.

"Take off yer head-gear," he said to Wade, who complied gladly.

"It's pretty warm under this thing," said Jack.

"Not so warm as hit was under them straps, is it?"

Wade made no reply.

"Ye don't like that much," said Peter, smiling, "Well, ye air not ter
blame, but ye'll see ther point afore ye air many days older. Now, I
want to tell ye somethin'. They was four o' them Thompsons' thar, an'
we've gotter look out, 'cause they're shore to head us off. We air not
travelin' ther same road as we come down when we went to ther spankin'.
Think yer kin take on a little shootin' fun ter-night, Wade?"

While Peter spoke he was glancing sharply about them. He was accustomed
to the ways of those old mountaineers, and felt quite certain that
trouble was lurking near. His experience in feuds had taught him about
what to expect, and he would not likely be caught unawares.

"Ef ye kin," he continued, "unhook yer gun, fer they's a-goin' ter be
somethin' doin' soon."

The words had hardly passed from his lips when there sang over their
heads the "zing" of a rifle bullet.

"Thar ye air," shouted Peter. "We mout a-looked for that shore. Git
ready, now, an' when ye see a black spot down ther road let 'em have it
good an' straight."

"_Bling_!" Another bullet passed harmlessly near. "_Bling!_" one was
sent back.

"Move up a little, Jack," said Peter, tapping his horse. "I'm not
a-feered,--don't want ye ter think that,--but they be too many fer us to
stop an' argify with."--"_Bling!_" "_Blang!_"--"Give 'em thunder, boy.
Thar they air!"--"_Bling!_"--"Git to t'other side o' ther road,
Jack"--"Blang!"--"we air too close together, so's they cain't hit us so
easy."--"_Blang!_" "_Blang!_"--"Keep it a-goin', boy, ye'll git used ter
ther ways o' the mountain yet"--"_Blang!_"--"Ther durn fool!" ejaculated
Peter, grunting loudly.

"What's the matter?" asked Wade.

"The tip end o' one o' my fingers is gone clear as a whistle, that's
what ther matter is, boy. Give it to 'em, now,--thar they air, but they
hain't a-coming so fast. Think we must hit somebody that time. What air
they now? I don't see 'em anymore."

"Neither do I. They have given up, Peter, as sure as you live; they've
quit the fight. Somebody got a bullet."

"Don't be too shore, boy; they must be foolin' us and' goin' 'round to
head us off. I've been through mor'n a dozen sich fights as this,--got
two bullet holes in one leg at ther same scrap,--but they hain't got old
Peter yet. I guess it's all over for this time, Wade. Follow me now,
quick. I'm goin' ter give 'em the slip. We'll go clean 'round that hill
yonder, an' they won't know whatever become of us, ef they do try to
out-trick us."

After skirting the hill in silence, old Peter began again: "That was one
good short fight, boy, an' I declare ye air a putty good stayer. Ye kin
pull ther trigger 'bout as fast as any Kentuckian as ever fit with me,
lessen hit was Rube Willers. I remember one time years ago when I was
on t'other side o' ther mountain, when Bill Tulliver's outfit was agin
me an' Rube Willers. 'Course we had friends, an' so did they, but Rube
could outshoot any feller what ever come into the mountains, an' I seed
him put 'bout five holes through Bill Tulliver afore he hit ther ground.
But Bill come near a-gittin' him, shore; he put a hole in Rube's
shoulder, an' ef hit'd 'a' been one inch t'other way Rube'd never 'a'
had time ter git anybody after that, he'd never 'a' had time to a-told
what struck him. These old mountaineers know how to use ther
shootin'-irons, that's shore. But I forgot to ax ye ef ye got hit, did
ye?"

"No, I'm safe this time."

"Ye talk like ye mout git a ball some other time, an' ye had better look
sharp all the time now. Al Thompson is a lion, but we made him git
ter-night, I believe. Don't ye think we've slipped them?"

Jack did.

The gray streaks of dawn were appearing in the eastern horizon and there
would likely be no more fighting. Judson and Wade were not far from home
now. Being tired and sore, they rode on in silence. Jack Wade was no
coward, a coward would never have undertaken the heavy task which he
had, but he also was not fond of fighting. Had he lived in the mountains
all his life he would have enjoyed the sport, but he had not, there was
not so much sport in it for him as there was for old Peter Judson, who
knew nothing else.

The trouble between the Judson and Thompson factions could be dated back
to the early days, when one Alex Judson, a very young man, shot to death
one Bill Allen, a kinsman of the Thompsons, on the streets of the little
village. Alex Judson flew to the mountains, and there arose two factions
out of the killing. From time to time a Thompson or a Judson was picked
off his saddle as he rode over the mountain in the dead of night, but
after the death of Alex Judson the trouble had been patched up, and for
years had lain still, but only sleeping, not dead. The history began
before the present generation came into being, and old Peter's act in
clipping Al Thompson's trigger finger off had opened the wound anew, the
old sore bled, and the end of the trouble was not yet.

All this and more Peter told Wade as they rode on toward home, finally
pulling up at Wade's cabin.

"An' now, Wade," said Peter, "ye air a Judson, an' ye can't expect
anything but death. Somebody's a-goin' ter git killed afore this thing
is over. Hit may be me, hit may be you, hit may be Jim Thompson or his
son Al, an' hit may be Tom. Nobody knows who it will be till he's done
fer."

"I shall be satisfied," replied Wade.

Jack watched the old man out of sorrowful eyes as he rode up the hill
leading Tom's horse behind him.

"The old fellow has had much trouble," he thought, "but he seems to
enjoy the sport of a feudal fight." Wade attended to his own stock and
then lay down for a few hours of rest. The strenuous night had been too
much for his nerves, but there was much other trouble before him of
which he little dreamed as he lay across his bed to rest. He was not
long in falling fast asleep, and it was near noon by the sun when he was
awakened by the low whine of Rover standing at the door. Wade rose and
shook himself much after the fashion of a dog coming out of the water.
His head felt heavy, his brain dull. The events of the night before were
trying to fix themselves in his memory, but he could not shape them. He
had faint recollection of all he had gone through from the time of
hearing the dog-horn, the two successive rifle shots, his hasty rush
through the fields to Judson's, and then, ah, then, of his acceptance of
the invitation to go out into the darkness of the night to watch the fun
of flogging a farmer. It all passed hazily through his sleep-clogged
brain. He could now see it all just as it happened, the firing of
rifles, his own hasty retreat, the running conversation of old Peter
Judson, as he encouraged him to keep up a continuous fire on the dark
spots in the road behind them; then Peter's exclamation that the end of
his finger had been shot away by the murderous marksmen, the escape, and
finally the return to his own cabin.

He could not keep these events out of his memory, they were there as
dark spots and would remain so forever. Reaching for his coat, he made
the discovery that he had narrowly escaped death, for there, a half-inch
from the second button from the top, was the tell-tale hole made by a
Winchester bullet. He could remember now just when the bullet which had
nearly taken his life flew by him. He had heard the "zing!" and the
"swish!" but had not suspected that it came so close to boring a hole
through his heart. A cold shudder ran over him as he thought of the
close proximity to death. Ah, well, that was life in the mountains, that
was the fulfillment of the "call of the wilds," and he must not now
complain. Wade seemed stupefied. All the while he dreamed the good old
brown dog looked longingly up into his careworn face, as if to say,
"What's the matter, master?" But there was no reply.

Rover whisked about him from one side to the other, in a vain effort to
attract him, but the result was the same, the mystic stupefaction was on
him, and he cared not for the dog just then. Of a sudden Rover ran out
of the door, baying furiously. Wade looked out and discovered the reason
for Rover's action. From toward the city came three men on horseback,
riding leisurely. Wade watched them closely as they came on. They were
strangers so far as he could tell from the distance that separated them.
When they were just opposite the cabin they halted, Wade still watching
them. Their actions now seemed a little strange, for one rode around the
other two and stood near the gate. Rover was tearing up the earth in his
anxiety to get at them. The man near the gate cried out loudly, and
Wade, unconscious of lurking danger, went out in answer to the call,
unarmed. He had not seen the necessity of arming himself to meet three
strangers in bright noonday. The other two lined up near the fence, and
when Wade approached, commanding Rover to be quiet, the three men
covered him with revolvers. "Hands straight up," said one.

Wade obeyed the command. "What outrage is this?" he asked warmly.

"No outrage at all, friend," said the captain. "It means that we have
come to arrest you, and if you make any fuss about it you might be
seriously hurt."

"I don't understand," said Wade.

"You will soon enough. You are under arrest in connection with the death
of one Lem Franklin, who passed in his checks last night with his boots
on."

"What proof have you that I know anything of the death of this
Franklin?" asked Wade.

"Sufficient to convict you of murder, sir," was the reply.

"I don't know this Franklin at all."

"Likely enough you don't, but the proof of your guilt is sufficient to
warrant the arrest."

It was beginning to dawn upon Wade's bewildered mind that he and Judson
had dropped one of the enemy during the running fight of the night
before. He could see it plainly now, but he knew it would not do to
submit willingly and meekly to an arrest which would deprive him of his
liberty for a long time.

"I am not armed at all, as you can see," he said, "and I believe it will
look better if you gentlemen will lower your revolvers. I will feel more
free then to talk with you. You have a serious advantage."

"And we intend to hold it, too," said the captain. "A fellow must get
an advantage and keep it in this country. Make ready now, and come on."

Wade looked fire. "I shall not submit," he said hotly.

"Then if you will not, we must force you, and I warn you that one move
contrary on your part will cause your immediate death."

"You are a bluffer," said Wade, "and a coward." Jack had now recognized
this man.

The latter raised his revolver until it pointed directly at Wade's head.
"You think it a bluff, do you, and that I won't shoot?"

"You won't do any thing fair, that's certain," exclaimed Wade.

The assistant officers kept very quiet, not offering any way out of the
difficulty. The captain got off his horse and stepped toward Wade. "I'll
blow your brains out," he said, angrily, "if you don't come out at
once."

"You did blow one man's life out recently," said Wade sneeringly, "and I
do not doubt but that you would blow my life out, if you were in the
dark where two other gentlemen could not look upon the deed."

The peculiar manner in which Wade remarked this caused the two to look
one at the other, and the captain turned pale, staggered toward his
horse, and replied more cautiously: "I don't understand you, but there
is no use to argue the case. You must submit to an arrest, and that as
quickly as possible."

Wade knew that his remarks had made a telling blow, and that he now had
an equal advantage.

"I will not submit," he replied coolly, "and if you do not leave without
further request I shall have this entire country on to you in less time
than an hour--even before you could get three miles down the road."
Turning to Rover, Wade said, "Go home, quick, and give the alarm." The
good old, well-trained dog, seeming to understand, galloped off in the
direction indicated by Wade's pointing finger, while the officers looked
after him anxiously. The mark had been struck, however, and the
officers, thinking it a good time to depart, said, "We'll get you a
little later, old boy." With this they galloped off toward Guthrie.

The man whom Wade had defied was no other than the assistant officer who
accompanied the warehouse man out that fateful night when Fred Conover
was so wantonly murdered. Wade had recognized him, and used the
knowledge to his own good, and to save himself from the jail at that
time.

Thoughtfully Wade made his way slowly up the road toward Judson's home,
where he told of what had just happened.

"That," said Peter, "is the work of Al Thompson, shore. He's to the back
of it. Seein' as how he couldn't fetch us fair and square with a bullet,
he's made up his mind ter git us any way he kin. Apt's not, ef ther
truth was known, he shot Franklin in ther back hisself, so's ter say we
done it. Hit looks kinder like he was after you specially, Wade, cause
he hain't got no right ter know that ye were out last night unless he
seed ye or heerd ye a-talkin', or seed Tom's hoss, one t'other. Ef he
didn't, he's a-playin' a sneakin' game, that's what. Well, I see I
cain't git 'bout, fer awhile, on account o' this hyar finger bein' a
little sore, an' Tom, he's walkin' 'bout a little now, an' you an'
him'll hafter kinder keep things a-goin'--keep 'em warm till I git so I
kin shoot agin. Ye needn't be afeerd o' them officers a-comin' back
agin. They won't do that. Only 'cause ye air putty nigh a stranger hyar
that they ever tackled ye 'tall. Thay won't tackle a feller what knows,
that's shore. They're skeered o' their shadders, that's what they air."

Old Peter quit talking long enough to put out a plug of tobacco as large
as his fist to be replaced with another equally as large, and continued:

"Now, Wade, ye've got ther best of one man anyway, an' I reckon ye
better keep ther knife thar a little while. Hit'll do us all good some
time, an I reckon ye better not go a-fishin' ter-day, 'cause Al
Thompson'll turn ther mountain over ter do us up. I seed Frank Buckalew
ter-day, an' told him how things was a-goin', an' he said he'd fix
things warm over t'other side, an' he'll do it, too. He's my cousin, an'
as good a fighter as ever carried a gun over ther mountain, I seed him
kill a feller onct after the other feller had him kivered. Hit was done
so quick he never know'd what struck him."




CHAPTER XIII


Late August and seasoning. Many of the farmers who had raised tobacco at
all had it stored in their barns, some intending to sell openly, and
others to throw into the pool. The great association knew what was going
on from the top of the mountain to the cities below. "The Wolf,
Night-Watch," had been very busy from the beginning of the burning
season through the turning, resetting, and gathering. He knew just how
much tobacco each farmer had raised, where it was stored, when and to
whom he expected to sell it, and what he expected to realize on the
sale. He knew how much tobacco Jack Wade had stored in his barns down on
the Redmond farm, and he also knew that Wade was in thorough sympathy
with the association, which was making strenuous efforts to raise the
price of tobacco to a point where living expenses could be met.

Every farmer knew Wade now, and looked upon him as a strong friend and a
powerful help in the community. His popularity had grown to such an
extent that he was recognized as a leader, and his counsel was eagerly
and continuously sought. He had made such a thorough study of the
situation that he was familiar with all points. His great genius was
highly esteemed, his knowledge of tobacco and the manner of raising it
brought many of the older raisers to converse with him, and he freely
talked with everyone, giving his idea in full. The result of his study
was that more tobacco and a much higher grade was being raised on less
ground than the old heads thought it possible to raise at all.

When the purchasers from Hopkinsville came, Wade searched them
thoroughly with his keen eye. He knew they had intended to put the price
down low, and he was going to meet them in a manner that they little
dreamed of.

"Yours is the finest tobacco I have seen," said one.

"Thank you," replied Wade carelessly. "Have you purchased much yet?"

"Only one barn. I'll offer you three and one-half cents at once for
yours."

Wade just stared at the speaker.

"I'll make it four cents," said the other.

Wade turned upon him sharply.

"Do you expect to buy much tobacco at that price?" he asked.

"We expect to purchase every pound of tobacco in this country at less
than five cents," said one.

In Wade's mind there was a set determination, born on the moment, that
they should not purchase one pound of tobacco for less than ten cents,
and perhaps more.

"You are buying for the trusts?" he asked.

"No," said the other, half angrily, "we are _not_ buying for the trusts.
I am buying for a private company, and have no connection with this
gentleman, although we are together. If his judgment leads him to
believe that the tobacco is worth more than my judgment leads me to
believe it to be worth, naturally he offers a better price, that's all.
Now, as I said, you have about the highest quality tobacco I have seen
this season, therefore I shall raise this gentleman's offer and make it
four cents and the half. Shall you let it go at that?"

"I shall not."

"Then you may keep it stored until it rots."

"Hold!" said the second man. "My last offer is six cents. Shall you let
it go?"

"I shall _not_!"

"Then keep it in your barns until it rots; you'll not get more than we
have offered you."

"I'll allow it to rot then," said Wade defiantly.

The two men rode off toward Judson's. Wade meant to fulfill his
determination, if it should cost him many thousands of dollars. Hastily
saddling his horse he also rode up to Judson's, where he found the two
tobacco purchasers parleying with old Peter.

"No," Peter was saying, "I hain't got much terbacker this season, but ye
cain't git what little I've got fer no three and a half cents."

Jack touched the old man on the shoulder. "Remember, Judson," he
whispered, "I'll make it one cent heavier than they offer." Then he
rode in search of Tom, whom he instructed to go over the country as fast
as he could and advise the faithful ones to hold their tobacco for
twelve cents. "Tell them," he said, "that they have a standing offer of
eleven and one-half from me, and they should hold out for twelve from
anyone else. Make it plain to them that the offer is made in good faith,
and the man who fails to sell in good season for twelve cents shall
receive eleven and one-half. You had not better go into Thompson's
territory."

"I'll go thar too," said Tom, "an' I'll even go to old Jim Thompson's
house. He can't hurt anybody yet, an' Al's off on a trip right now, so
they's nuthin' to be skeered of."

"I won't make the offer to Thompson at this time, Tom; it would be no
use. He'd rather sell for one cent than accept assistance from us."

"All right, I hain't a-keerin' much 'bout foolin' 'round thar, anyhow."

"Be off, then!"

The two men were still parleying with Peter, in an effort to purchase
his tobacco, but he was holding very high above them.

"No," he said, "I'll not take seven nor eight."

"My last offer is nine," said one.

"But I'm offered ten."

"I'll take what you have for ten," said the second.

"I'm offered eleven," said Peter, smiling.

The two purchasers turned in disgust and went their way, considerably
discouraged at the outcome of their trip. It was the same everywhere.
"I'm offered one cent more," was all they could hear. They were unable
to make out as to who had got in ahead of them to offer more, and they
could not reconcile this condition with Wade's whispered conversation
with Peter Judson. Every place they visited they received the same
reply, so they turned back to Hopkinsville with dejected countenances.
When they had departed from Judson's, the old man turned to Wade and
said, "Boy, what do you mean, anyway? Do ye expect ter fight ther great
trusts?" Peter smiled.

"For this season I do. There is only one way to win a battle, and that
way is to fight. Can't you see the result already? We shall get twelve
cents for our tobacco, where you have been getting only six. If it works
out all right, I'll offer more next season, and Nightriding will be
forever done away with and peace will reign among the farmers of this
rich country. Do you see it all?"

Peter did see it, and was very enthusiastic.

"Ye air a brick, Jack," he said. "I always knowed that ye had a great
head an' was sent into this kintry to save ther poor devils who
couldn't save themselves, 'cause hit'll work, an' they'll be back fer
the terbacker at twelve cents afore long, shore. They got ter git this
terbacker or go busted an' quit. Tom'll not quit ridin' till he's told
every farmer plum to t'other side o' ther hill an' back. Whoop, let 'er
go, we'll down 'em yet!"

Old Peter threw his hat high into the air and jumped like a boy, so
enthusiastic did he become.

"Ye'll make yerself more popular than ye air already, Jack, ef ye don't
watch out a little."

Wade knew his own power better than any other person. He merely smiled
at the old man's great enthusiasm, then turned to Nora, who had stood
listening to everything, feeling a higher admiration for Jack Wade.

"We'll take that trip to the brook to-day, if you like," he said. "The
day is so calm and the air so invigorating, it will do us good."

"I shall be pleased," she said. "Shall we go at once?"

"If it won't interfere with your duties at home."

"Nuthin' ter hinder," said Mrs. Judson; "she kin go when she wants."

The little wild flowers that earlier in the year were so bright and
happy were now a little drooped, having gone through the warm summer
with but little water; however, they still nodded approvingly as the two
passed astride the gentle steeds.

"When we were here last," said Wade, "the spring was just appearing and
everything was so beautifully green."

"The summer sun has been too much for the foliage and flowers," replied
Nora.

"That is only to remind us of what humanity must pass through," said
Jack. "The bloom of youth is upon us, we are now in the springtime of
our lives, fresh and gay; but the great hot summer of time must pass
over our heads to wither us as the summer sun has withered and drooped
the sweet little flowers. The cold winters of time must pass over us to
silver the golden curls and gray the hair as the summer sun has given a
golden tint to those once green leaves yonder."

"Oh, Jack, must it be so?"

"Do not look so sorrowful over it, child. Life is life, and must be
lived out in accordance with the will of the Almighty, maker of heaven
and earth. See how beautiful the golden-tinted leaves appear in the last
hours of their lives. They have done their duty, and the reward is
theirs; they toil no more, but man, who is born of woman, is of few days
and full of sorrow."

"While it seems that all is night to the poor woman whom God has seen
fit to place here as a helpmeet to man."

"You are looking through the darkness to-day, Nora."

"There seems no light, Jack."

"Yet it will break in on you, my child, when you are least expecting
it."

"Then there will be other things to worry over."

"My little fairy," said Wade, "you were not born to worry. Cease. It
makes you thin; you must not worry any more."

"How can I help it, Jack? I must worry while conditions are as they now
are in the valley. I fear lest Dad shall be killed, I fear lest Tom
shall be picked from his saddle, and I--I even fear lest you might not
be with us long. You must know that you have been a great salvation to
this country, in one sense, and in another----"

"What! you hesitate?"

"If you should die," said Nora slowly, "why, life would not be worth
much to some."

"And to you, Nora?"

"Without you all would be dark."

"Nora!"

"Yes, Jack. You are the only person who ever awakened within my soul a
sensation akin to joy. Your big heart has won my esteem, and--and----"

Nora hung her head shyly, as she told what had been in her heart for
some time.

"Your love is not in vain," said Wade.

They had now reached the brook, and were dismounting.

"Let us seal our love right here, under this tree," said Wade, and he
impressed a kiss upon her sweet forehead. A quiet flush covered her
face, and she was very happy.

The spot they selected was a lovely one 'neath a small bush, where they
would be completely hid from the view of an idle passer. They were in
Thompson's territory, and, though Tom Judson had thought Al was away, it
was not true. This had been a ruse on the part of the wily Al in order
to catch a Judson napping. Wade did not know of a certainty that Al was
not gone, but he was cautious, nevertheless. His rifle was ever near
him. Now, they had not been long secure until they saw Al meandering
down the stream on the opposite side from them. Wade watched him until
he was directly opposite them, then whispered to Nora to keep well hid.
Leveling his rifle at Al, he commanded him to halt. Nora's heart beat
fast in her bosom. Al, recognizing Wade's voice, looked sharply around,
sending his right hand to his pistol pocket. Too late.

"Take it off," said Wade, "or I may be tempted to blow out your life."

Wade spoke in the rough language of the mountaineer. Times were such
that a fellow must necessarily blow a fellow's brains out or get his own
scattered over the earth. Thompson caught sight of Wade in his
hiding-place and, seeing that he was looking into the barrel of Wade's
rifle, took his hand from his pocket and raised it, with the other, high
above his head.

"Ye've got me shore, this time," said Al. "What ye goin' ter do with
me?"

"I'm going to kill you," replied Wade. "Turn your back to me, and be
quick about it."

"What! ye hain't a goin' ter shoot me in ther back, air ye?" asked
Thompson, turning to fulfill the command.

"Wouldn't you shoot me in the back, or any other part of the body, had
you the opportunity?"

"I didn't."

"You haven't had the opportunity."

"Yes, I have."

"When?"

"Ther night I borried yer hoss. Ye didn't know me then, Wade, but hit
was me, shore. I lost my hoss an' just had ter have 'nuther--had so much
ter do afore morning', an' I took yours for only a little while, 'cause
I knowed you wouldn't have as much ter do as me."

"Why did you not kill me, Thompson, while you had the chance?"

"Because ye didn't kill me when ye had the chance, that's why."

Wade crossed the stream, going directly through the water, took Al's
pistols from his pockets and laid them on the ground a safe distance
away. Stepping back a pace, he commanded Thompson to turn and face him.

"So you did not kill me that night because I had not killed you at a
time when I had an advantage?"

"Exactly. Do ye think one of us fellers could be unfair? Not so; we
treat everybody square. That time made us even, but I said I'd kill ye
ef ye was caught that away again."

"In that case, Thompson, I have a perfect right to let you have a load,"
said Wade, drawing a bead on the latter's head. "First, however, I want
to know why you hate me so, why do you wish to kill me at all?"

"That ought'n ter make any difference ter you."

"It does, and your life just now depends upon your answer to the
question. I've got you dead to rights, and you may as well know that I
do not intend you shall live another moment if your motives against me
are not true. Now answer how you will."

"In ther first place," said Thompson coolly, "ye air playin' false with
ther gal I love. Ye don't intend ter marry her. Ye've already said in
yer own mind that she's not good enough fer you, an' ye air foolin' with
her heart an' a-killin' her, an' she's weaned away from me, so it's made
me sick, an' I said I'd kill ye fer it. Then ye got ther best of me, an'
didn't, an' I got ther best of you, an' I didn't. Now, ye have me, an' I
reckon ye oughter do it, though, I----"

"You are lying," interrupted Wade. "You are lying through and through,
and you know it. You are a coward, Thompson, through and through, and
you feel it, so I'm going to shoot you through the top of your head
right now to end your earthly fears and settle the matter once and
forever."

There was a terrible gleam in Wade's eyes, Thompson saw it, and his
flesh quivered. He saw Wade raise his rifle barrel until it was level
with his breast, up it came until it was level with his head. There came
over him an impulse to break and run for his life, but his horror of
being shot in the back kept him from doing so. The sensation within him
at that moment was terrible. Suddenly, being thoroughly overcome with
fright, he threw both hands high into the air and cried out for mercy.

"For God's sake," he exclaimed, "don't kill me this way!"

"I knew you were a coward," said Wade. "I didn't ask you for mercy when
you would have driven your knife through me, but I am going to hear your
cry and let you go. One thing I want to know, however, and I must have
the absolute truth. Didn't you come down this way looking for me?"

"Yes."

"And intended killing me?"

"I did."

"What object had you in telling the officers that I killed Franklin?"

"I wanted to fix ye then."

"Did you not shoot Franklin yourself?"

"No, no. I didn't! Hit was a bullet from your gun, or old man Judson's.
No, Wade, I did not do that. I hain't that mean, ef they do say I am."

"How did you know I was out with the Riders?"

"I didn't know ye was there. I took a long shot ter fix ye, that's all."

"All right, now, here are your pistols. Take them and get as fast as you
can. Don't try to use them now, but when you get the drop on me again
you had better pull the trigger."

Wade watched Thompson as he made his departure. When he had put
considerable distance between them Al fired both his pistols in the air
and gave one of his old-time Comanche yells that vibrated through the
woodland.

"I'll git ye yet," he cried back. "Ye hain't, got away from me, an'
what's more, ye hain't a-goin' ter."

Wade drifted back across the stream to where he had left Nora, and found
her shaking from fright.

"You didn't take these matters so seriously when I first came into this
country," said Jack.

"No," replied Nora, "for then I did not think as I do now. I really
believed you were about to commit murder. Oh, Jack, how happy you have
made me, by withholding your hand."

"Once you said it would be better for me to kill Thompson at sight. Did
you not?"

"I did not, Jack. That is what father told you."

"Pardon me, Nora, you are quite right. Time has blurred my memory."

"I am so glad, Jack, that you are such a fearless man. A coward would
have taken the advantage you had and would have slain Al."

"Thank you."




CHAPTER XIV


The little cabin at the foot of the mountain was enshrouded in gloom,
would soon be engulfed by the dark shadows of night. In the cabin window
a candle light, wafted by the soft twilight breeze, flickered and
sputtered, but burned on in obedience to the will of the powers that be.
In a bed in one corner of the room lay Nora, that sweet girl of the
wilds, a pallor spread over her face.

The light in the window was flickering just as her own life had been
flickering and smoldering, but it did not go out. She was still alive,
and the crucial point had been passed. Now she lay, the Diana of the
hills, as beautiful as the Diana of old. Outside 'neath the large
spreading tree the chickens were strutting, craning their necks, bobbing
their heads up and down, looking upward preparatory to a flight to the
limbs above them. On the rickety little porch old Rover was lying, head
cast down between his front forepaws, with a sorrowful expression upon
his dog face. The mistress had been ill for some time, and his
master--Wade--had not paid the least attention to him, always appearing
as though he preferred being alone; so the old dog, feeling the many
slights, went about with a cast-down countenance.

Earlier in the day Wade had passed going toward the mountain in search
of game. Later on he was blazing his way, with the barrel of his rifle,
through the thick underbrush down the mountain side. He had got into
entire new territory, and sometimes it became necessary for him to crawl
through, so thick was the brush. Other times he merely pushed aside the
low-hanging limbs with his gun, finally emerging from the thicket into
the open space. When space would allow he straightened himself out,
then his back ached and his hands and knees were very sore. Suddenly he
caught the sound of a disturbed rabbit as it flitted out from its snug
nest beneath the shrub. Jack looked quickly in that direction, in time
to see it crossing the ravine too far away to shoot. As he walked on
there came to his listening ears the shrill whistle of a mountain quail
as it sang out its note of warning to its hidden mate near. Wade started
off in the direction whence the call of the quail came, but after
walking some distance gave up the search and stood still. A dead silence
prevailed. Before him was the clear running stream, behind him a wild
waste of mountain. Down to the stream's edge he walked, and sat down to
rest his tired, weary, sore limbs. The sun was now setting behind the
western hills, the soft gentle twilight was drooping over the mountain
and valley; still Wade sat, dangling his feet over a precipice, gazing
down through the gathering mist into the gleaming waters below, watching
them as they went dancing gleefully over the rocks, sending their
sparkling, silvery spray high into the air, falling again like silver
bubbles. When the dark shadows swooped down and the day was no more, he
still sat. When the golden moon rose above the towering mountain,
dispelling the hideousness of a lonesome, dark night, he was still
sitting in the same spot, dangling his heels against the solid
embankment. Across his limbs lay his rifle, his right hand protecting
it, while his chin rested firmly in his left hand, which was supported
at the elbow by his left leg. Thus he sat silent, no sound save that of
the rippling waters of the little running brook breaking the stillness
of the night.

"Ah me, ah me!" sighed Wade. His head was bent and his heart was
stooped; it must be all over. "For so long a time have I been about this
mountain, and the object of my coming, though faithfully sought, has not
been found; my purpose remains yet unfulfilled. The tortures I would
have inflicted upon others have been turned upon my own heart. My soul
is sad. I give up, I give up, for all time. There are now no murderous
intents in my heart, there are now no evil designs in my life. Would
that I was at peace with everybody. All my heart's desire is peace,
sweet peace, that I might spend the balance of my days amid the sweet
perfumed mountain flowers and about this dear little stream with whose
swiftly running waters I have raced so often, always with her, the
sweetest and most beautiful of all. Dear wild flower of the mountain!"

Wade raised his head until he looked into the beautiful blue of the
heavens. The gleaming stars, arrayed in silvery brightness, looked down
on him.

"Speak, lights of God, speak to my waiting heart, speak to my burdened
soul and tell me, if you can, what the future holds in store for me. Am
I to continue in hell on earth for my evil life? If so, tell me quick
that I might dash my head against yonder rock and end the torture now.
If not, speak, that she might live. God save her, let not her present
illness separate us forever. It would blight my life; it would kill me.
Save her that she may save my soul from a torturous hell; save her that
her sweet life might be a blessing to the great, big world beyond this
mountain, which she so much longs to see."

Jack felt much better--as does anyone after a faithful prayer. He felt
that his prayer had been answered already, and rose in great haste to
make his way back over the mountain to the bedside of Nora. He had not
seen her all day, had been afraid to see her lest he should find her
cold in death, but rather spent a great portion of the day in prayer for
her immediate relief. When he arrived at the cabin of Peter Judson the
flickering candle-light was still in the window, burning low. His heart
sank; it was emblematic of a low ebbing life. With bowed head and
unsteady step he went in. Old Rover, still lying quietly and silently on
the porch, did not rise at Wade's approach, but wagged his tail in
recognition. A death-like quiet pervaded the place, a solemn stillness
overspread the home, but he was encouraged to go on, with a feeling that
matters were improved.

Old Peter met him at the door, and to his anxious, questioning stare he
said: "She's much better; the danger is over."

"Thank God," came in broken whisper.

Wade sat down by the bedside and took the slender, pale hand in his own
strong one. For a moment no sound came from the lips of either of them,
they just looked into each other's eyes until the weaker ones became
mist-filled, and those strong, manly eyes of Jack Wade battled hard
against heavy odds just at that moment, but the tears were held firmly
back while he rubbed the hand which he held.

"I'm much better now, Jack." The voice was low and weak, but sweet and
serene. "Your presence is like good medicine. Why haven't you been by
before?"

Wade would not tell her that the balm came from God; therein he was
weak. His excuse was, however, satisfying to the tired and worn mind,
and strength to the wasted frame. She looked up into his face sweetly.

"You look so tired and worn, Jack," she said, "have you been worrying a
great deal?"

"I have worried much, dear girl, on your account. Now that you are
better, I will not look worried any more."

"Have you encountered any trouble lately, has your life been
threatened?"

"It has not. All has been peace and quiet without; the turbulence has
been within only. I do not have fears for anything as regards the power
or will of man. We must not talk of those things just now. When you are
stronger I have much to tell you."

"Then I must get stronger fast, for I cannot bear to lie here while you
are withholding something from me."

"I fear you won't like me when I have confessed and laid my life bare
before you."

"That cannot be, Jack. Nothing at all shall separate us, so far as I am
concerned."

Wade raised the thin pale hand to his lips and kissed it, thus bringing
a flush to her sweet face.




CHAPTER XV


Nora gradually regained her old strength, and after a few weeks had
passed she was going about doing her domestic duties as before. Jack
Wade was sorrowful no longer, and Rover was himself once more.

When the good dog saw Wade coming through the gate he began wagging his
tail and showing by other signs that he was as happy as the human beings
about him. When Wade departed for his own cabin Rover would accompany
him, sometimes halfway, sometimes the entire distance, as if he believed
harm would come to his friend unless he kept close watch over him.
Somehow, Rover had a better instinct in sniffing danger than most dogs,
and when there was the least intimation of danger or trouble Rover
scented it very early, and generally conveyed the news to those about
him in his own good way. He was fully understood, his language was well
known to his masters, and they knew by his actions what was about to
happen.

Thus it was that, when Wade was doing his evening chores, Rover came
galloping into the horse-lot, baying in a troubled fashion. Something
was about to happen. Rover never acted in this manner unless it was so.
He ran whining to Wade, caught his boot-leg between his teeth and
pulled; then letting loose, darted rapidly toward the gate, back again,
barking in a manner indicating fear, taking the boot-leg again and
pulling vigorously.

"What, old boy," said Wade, "some more trouble in the air? Well, just be
patient until I can lock this door and get my good weapons, and we shall
see what it's all about."

So speaking to the dog, Wade locked the barn, hurried into the house
and, taking his two pistols and rifle, started cautiously up the lane
toward Judson's cabin. Night had fallen and the moon was just peeping up
over the hills, sending forth a dim dusty light, while the sky was
canopied with a very thin white cloud and the stars gave forth no light
at all. Wade made his way as noiselessly as possible, followed by Rover.
Looking in the direction of Judson's, he saw a streak of light made from
the flash of a rifle shot, followed by a faint report, which meant a
bullet to where he knew not. He knew that the long looked for trouble
was on in real earnest, therefore hastened his pace. The firing from
many rifles became more general. He had got close enough to see that
there were more than a half dozen combatants firing on Judson's cabin
from toward the hill. Judson and his son Tom were returning the fire at
intervals in an effort to repulse the attack, and had been successful in
holding off a rush. From his position Wade could have taken off two of
the opponents before they discovered him, but the flashing fire of his
rifle, however, would have disclosed his hiding place.

He thought for a moment, raised his rifle to his shoulder and took
deliberate aim at a foe sitting on the back of his horse. No, that would
be murder straight out. God forbid! Still, the impulse to fire clung to
him, but he could not seem to pull the trigger. The firing between the
combatants now became more furious, and suddenly he heard someone in the
house cry out with pain. Again he took aim at the man nearest him,
fully intending to put out the light of life. His finger touched the
trigger and in another moment one would have been slain, when a hand was
laid gently upon his shoulder. It was so sudden, however, in that
terrible moment, that fright ran through him and he accidentally pulled
the trigger of his rifle, but the ball went high into the air. He was
hastily pulled into the cover of the barn.

The effects of his shot worked terror to the hearts of the attacking
party, however, who thought they were being surrounded on all sides by
unknown foes, therefore took time by the forelock and fled in great
confusion toward the hills. But look! one horse bounded off riderless.
Could it be possible that one was in hiding near, and intended doing a
bit of guerrilla fighting?

Wade stood like one transfixed to the spot, looking after the fleeing
horses of the enemy, not once turning to see who touched him, until the
last fleeing form had passed from view and the firing had ceased
altogether; then he turned and stood face to face with Nora Judson. A
flush, unseen through the darkness, covered his hitherto pale face. For
one brief moment they stood facing each other.

"How came you here?" he asked.

"Our mutual friend told me that you was about to fall into an error."
She looked toward Rover, who stood at one side wagging his tail. "Jack,"
she said, tenderly yet sorrowfully, "you were about to commit murder."

"I _might_ have killed one of those fellows, but I cannot see that it
would have been murder in a real sense; we are enemies, and this has
been a small war."

"But you were about to take the life of someone in a manner that I would
not call bravery. You were not in front of the battle as an open enemy.
The fellow you would have killed knew nothing of your presence here, and
that would have been cold-blooded murder."

"What is the difference in this country, where all is murder?"

Wade was evidently trying to relieve his conscience.

"The difference is not with the other fellow, but with you. I am glad,
however, that you did not kill him."

"I am also glad of that, Nora, thanks to you." They were now walking
toward the cabin. "Was anyone inside hurt?" asked Wade. "I heard someone
cry painfully."

"That was Dad's ruse to draw them to a closer range, but it was the
accidental discharge of your rifle that put a stop to the fight."

Peter Judson was cautiously peering about, when he espied Wade and Nora.

"Hi, thar!" he said. "Be ye enemies or friends?"

"Friends," replied Wade.

"Ye jest missed some fun, shore. Reckon we give them fellers 'bout as
good a scare as ever they had, don't you think?"

"From the way they retreated," said Wade, "I believe they were
frightened; but we must be very careful, Judson,--one horse went up the
hill riderless."

Old man Peter scratched his head. "The dickens ye say. Reckon what that
means, Wade?"

"That someone is lurking around in the dark to pick us off when we least
expect it."

"Wade, ye don't know these fellers yet, long's ye've been here.
Somebody's lyin' out yonder dead, as shore as you live. Tom, git the
lantern an' come on; let's take a look."

Followed by Tom and Wade, Peter went out the gate toward the spot where
the enemy were located while the fighting was going on. Old Peter, that
old time scout of the mountains, stopped and stood in a listening
attitude. Now he heard the faint groan from someone to the left of them;
his trained ear carried him to the fallen man.

"Hi, thar, friend!" he called out; "whar air ye?"

"I'm dyin'," came back the groaning reply, "I'm dyin', shore; this
time."

Peter went on and bent over the fallen form. Throwing the glare of his
lantern in the face of the man, he gasped, "My God! it's Al Thompson."

"Yes, it's Al, old man; ye got me this time." Thompson was speaking
laboriously, while Wade and those near listened breathlessly. Thompson
was dying sure enough. His last words were a curse against those who had
been his enemies. "Ye got me now, damn ye!" he said, "but I'll git ye
when ye come down ter t'other world, ye----"

Thompson could say no more.

Peter looked into the pale face. "He's dead, shore, boys; he's a goner
now, an' won't give us any more trouble."

Just at this juncture there could be heard the sound of the heavy beat
of horses coming over the mountain.

"Git back a little, quick!" said Peter, "they mout be more trouble in
the air."

There was no further danger, however, for old Jim Thompson came over
the mountain bearing the flag of truce; with him were two other men.

"Hey, Judson!" he cried, "come out quick. There will be no more fightin'
from this side." Old man Thompson was quite surprised to hear Judson
reply from a very few feet away: "Ef ye mean that, Jim, hit's good news,
an' I'm with ye; but ef ye air a-jokin' or workin' a game, ye better go
slow."

"I'm sincere, Peter," replied Thompson. "Ye've shot my arm off agin
to-night an' killed Al, an' I've got 'nough, an' nuthin' left to fight
fer. It's no fault o' yours, as I kin see."

"I'm willin' ter be yer friend, Jim. Git down an' les hold prayer over
Al's dead body, an' bind this covenant over him so's ther fust one as
breaks it, let them what hears kill us then an' thar."

Wade and Nora stood off a few paces and, though there was gloom about
the mountain side for some, they were very happy with the thought that
with Al Thompson out of the way their troubles would forever end.

       *       *       *       *       *

There remains no more incidents to be related in the story of John
Redmond's desire for revenge, other than to relate that he told his
secret to Nora, who in turn told her father all. Peter related the full
circumstances of the death of the elder John Redmond, and proved beyond
the shadow of a doubt that Al Thompson slew him single handed.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Nightrider's Feud, by Walter C. McConnell

*** 