He rubbed his hand across his corrugated brow, and suddenly he became aware that her husband was in the room, speaking to the chairman of the county court, and claiming a certificate in the sum of two dollars each for the scalps of one wolf, “an' one painter,” he continued, laying the small furry repulsive objects upon the desk, “an' one dollar fur the skelp of one wild-cat.” He was ready to take his oath that these animals were killed by him running at large in this county. He had stooped a little in making the transfer. He came suddenly to his full height, and stood with one hand in his leather belt, the other shouldering his rifle. The old man scanned him curiously. The crude light from the long windows was full upon his tall slim figure; his yellow hair curled down upon the collar of his blue jeans coat; his great miry boots were drawn high over the trousers to the knee; his pensive deer-like eyes brightened with a touch of arrogance and enmity as, turning slowly to see who was present, his glance encountered his father-in-law's fiery gaze. “Mr. Cheerman! Mr. Cheerman!” exclaimed the old man, tremulously, “lemme examinate that thar wild-cat skelp. Thanky, sir; thanky, sir; I wanter see ef hain't off'n the head o' some old tame tomcat. An' this air a painter's “--affecting to scan it by the window--“two ears 'cordin' to law; yes, sir, two; and this”--his keen old face had all the white light of the sad gray day on its bleaching hair and its many lines, and his eager old hands trembled with the excitement of the significant satire he enacted--“an' this air a wolf's, ye say? Yes; it's a Kittredge's; same thing, Mr. Cheerman, by a diff'ent name; nuthin' in the code 'bout'n a premium fur a Kittredge's skelp; but same natur'; coward, bully, thief--_thief!_” The words in the high cracked voice rang from the bare walls and bare floors as he tossed the scalps from him, and sat down, laughing silently in painful, mirthless fashion, his toothless jaw quivering, and his shaking hands groping for the arms of his chair. “Who says a Kittredge air a thief says a lie!” cried out the young man, recovering from his tense surprise. “I don't keer how old he be,” he stipulated--for he had not thought to see her father so aged--“he lies.” The old man fixed him with a steady gaze and a sudden alternation of calmness. “Ye air a Kittredge; ye stole my daughter from me.” “I never. She kem of her own accord.” “Damn ye!” the old man retorted to the unwelcome truth. There was nothing else for him to say. “Damn the whole tribe of ye; everything that goes by the accursed name of Kittredge, that's got a drop o' yer blood, or a bone o' yer bones, or a puif o' yer breath--” “Squair! squair!” interposed an officious old colleague, taking him by the elbow, “jes' quiet down now; ye air a-cussin' yer own gran'son.”