But he had left all that behind him. The world was now at peace. It was surprising how quickly he had been able to forget that trees meant possible ambush and that moonlight in open spaces was a source of deadly danger. Men no longer were enemies and beautiful young women no longer needed rescuers. Civilization had reasserted her rights and bade men walk once again relaxed and at their ease. Even at this moment, Allston viewed the scene more as an effective picture than anything else. Bud, lank and lean, made rather a striking figure of the solitary horseman type. He had jerked up the mare’s head, and she, a bit frightened by the figures in the shadows, pricked forward her ears and snorted impatiently. In the silver light the two were rather spooky. As they stood there, silent and immobile now, it would not have greatly surprised Allston if it developed that the rider had no head. But Roxie Kester knew better. The man before her was no apparition. He was a grim reality. And his silence did not imply passiveness. She understood the meaning of that slight forward bend of his head and the significance of that quietly moving arm creeping towards the gun at his hip. And she knew better than anything else the interpretation Bud would place upon the presence of this stranger by her side. Her wildly beating heart--beating like a frightened bird at the approach of a hostile hand--told her that. Yet for a moment she also stood transfixed. She like the two men resembled a figure cut out of black paper. It was as though the night birds had also come to this conclusion, for softly, here and there in the trees and bushes roundabout, they ventured forth once more into cooing calls. Roxie was the first to speak. She moved forward a step, and thereby, without any realization on Allston’s part of what she was doing, placed herself between the two men. “Hullo, Bud,” she said. “Hullo, Roxie,” he answered. “I’m goin’ hum ’cause ma’s sick,” she explained. “Yo’ ma’s sick?” “Little Tom Culley--he sent word.” “Needed a stranger ter show the way, I reckon?” “He’s a frien’ o’ Miss Wilmer,” she answered almost eagerly. “Then,” said Bud, deliberately--“then he oughter stay with Miss Wilmer. It ain’t healthy in these hills--fer strangers.” Bud had reached his gun. He brought it forward, at this point, rather ostentatiously, and rested it on the pummel of his saddle. “Bud!” cried Roxie. But Allston, in the meanwhile, had reached his own gun. He had no desire to force any issue here unless it proved necessary. His instinct, however, warned him that he could no longer keep himself in the background. His temper, moreover, had been pricked by the studied insolence of Bud’s reference to strangers. When he acted, he acted quickly. With his raised automatic he jumped forward. “Throw down that gun,” he ordered.