For a few moments Bud Childers, safely hidden in the undergrowth, studied Allston as he sat within a few feet of Wilmer Howe in that sunlit cove on the side of Green Mountain. His long, bony fingers grasped firmly the gun with which he meant to kill this man. He had awaited his opportunity and here it was. He would have gambled a hundred to one that no power on earth could swerve him from his purpose, for it was backed by deadly hatred and jealousy and the burning hunger for revenge for the deep humiliation he had been made to suffer before the woman he loved. It was possible, from his present strategic point, to shoot and vanish. His guilt might be suspected afterwards, but no one could definitely establish it. There were other men in these mountains besides himself ready enough to shoot at strangers when they wandered loosely among the coves. Too many hidden stills existed hereabouts to make outsiders welcome. Bud’s face flushed as he watched Allston take leisurely puffs of the Turkish cigarette he held in his white fingers. And his lip curled in scorn as he noted the belted Norfolk jacket, the golf trousers and long stockings, the shiny, low shoes--all marks to him of effeminacy. But the smooth-shaven face, with its clear pink skin showing through the slight tan, seemed to irritate him more than anything else. His own was dark and tough as leather. So should every man’s be who was a man. It was to this fellow Bud had seen Roxie cling in the moonlit road. How much she meant by it he did not know, but she had meant enough so that she had turned away from him on the very night he intended to claim her. She had turned away from her own kind to a stranger because of his store clothes and his lily-white fingers and his pink cheeks and his school-taught way of speaking. She liked ’um that way. He had taunted her with that and she made no reply. Bud raised his gun with care not to disturb as much as a twig. He did not dare wait longer, for the sight of the man and the ugly memories he brought fresh to mind revived the old fever that blinded his eyes and unsteadied his hand. Blood-red anger does not make for sure shooting. And yet he must not hurry. He could not afford to risk more than one shot and he must not merely wound. To leave Allston crippled would be worse than nothing. That would excite only sympathy without definitely ending the affair. So he took his time. Bud’s finger muscles had actually begun to press against the heavy trigger, his bead drawn fair on Allston’s heart, when he saw something that made him pause. It was a simple act; Allston suddenly tossed aside his cigarette and seized the girl’s hand. Bud could not catch the man’s words, but he saw Wilmer Howe spring to her feet. He saw Allston rise beside her. Bud still had a good target--an even better target than before. And yet his gun began to lower. This situation interested him. He could catch Allston’s words now.