Wakeman stood up in his stockinged feet. He was still unruffled. “That’s a fact; the place is her ‘n,” he admitted. “But I ’ll tell you one article that ain’t. It’s that thar shootin’-iron on them deer-horns up thar, an’ ef you don’t git out ’n heer forthwith it ’ll make the fust hole in meat that it’s made in four yeer. Maybe me ’n Marty _ain’t_ man an’ wife, but when we wuz married the preacher said, ‘What the Lord has j’ined together let no man put asunder,’ an’ I ain’t a-goin’ to set still an’ see a dirty, oily-tongued scamp like you try to undo the Lord’s work. You know the way out, an’ I was too late fer hog-killin’. I went into the penitentiary fer jest one spree, but I ’ll go in fer manslaughter next time an’ serve my term more cheerful--I mought say with Christian fortitude.” Cowardice produced the dominant expression in Goardley’s face. He rose and backed from the room. The convict thumped across the resounding floor to the door and looked out after the departing man. “Run like a skeered dog,” he laughed, impulsively, as he turned back into the room. And then he waxed serious as he entered the atmosphere circling about Marty, who, with a stormy brow, sat immovable, her eyes downcast. “I couldn’t help it, to save me,” he began, apologetically, to her profile. “But I reckon you an’ me can manage to git along like we used to, an’ I never would ‘a’ had any respect fer myself ef I had a-let that scamp set heer an’ think he was a-courtin’ of you right before my eyes.” Marty made no reply. A flush of suppressed emotion had risen in her cheeks and was taking on a deeper tinge. Richard grunted, stepped half-way back to his chimney-corner, and looked at her again. Seeing her eyes still averted, he grunted aloud, and went to his chair and sat down. Several minutes passed. Then Lucinda’s prayerful eyes saw his hand, now quivering, reach behind him and draw his shoes in front of him. He put them on, but did not tie the strings. “Somehow,” he said, rising, “somehow, now that I come to think of it, I don’t feel exactly right--exactly as I used to--an’ I reckon, maybe, I ort to go some’rs else. I reckon, as you said jest now, that in the eyes o’ some folks you ain’t no married woman, an’ I have been makin’ purty free fer a jail-bird. Old Uncle Billy Hodkins won’t set his dogs on me, an’ I ’ll go over thar tonight. After that the Lord only knows whar I will head fer. Uncle Billy never did believe I was guilty; he’s writ me that a dozen times.” As he moved toward the door, in a clattering, slipshod fashion, Lucinda fixed Marty with a fierce stare. “Are you a-goin’ to set thar an’ let Dick leave us fer good?” she hurled at her fiercely. Marty made no reply save that which was embodied in a would-be defiant shrug, but the flow of blood had receded from her face.