It was evident the ritual was at an end; that this last was an admonition, not a part of it. Jim shivered but he knew he had not gone astray, that here was the man Zaanan had sent him to see. He retired softly a hundred feet, then called aloud and floundered toward the spot where the ritual had been spoken. Jim had not traversed half the distance before a man stepped from behind a mound. It was the same big, handsome, somber man whom Dolf Springer had called upon; it was Steve Gilders. Under his arm was the rifle that had sent a shiver up Dolf’s spine. “Lookin’ for somebody?” he demanded. “Yes. Judge Frame sent me.” “What’s your name?” “Ashe.” “Own the new mills down to Diversity?” “Yes. Are you the man I came to see?” “Calc’late so. Names is handy in talkin’ to folks. Mine’s Steve.” Jim thought it best not to ask additional names. “What was you wantin’?” Steve asked. “Somebody’s playing hob with my machinery and driving spikes into my logs for me to rip off sawteeth on. I think Michael Moran is at the bottom of it, but I want to prove it to myself.” “If you kin prove it—what?” “I’ll have a better conscience to go after the man.” “Not after him personal. You won’t lay hands on him? You hain’t figgerin’ on doin’ anythin’ to his body, be you? ’Cause I can’t have that. That hain’t your concern. It’s a job for somebody else.” “No. But I’m going to drive him out of Diversity.” Steve smiled. “If you was to take his money away from him and his power away from him, why I’d be glad. It ’u’d hurt him mighty bad. But I calc’late he hain’t goin’ to be drove out of Diversity. I figger he’s goin’ to stay here permanent—permanent as them in Diversity’s graveyard.” Jim wondered if the man were not off the mental perpendicular; but a glance at his fine if stern face, his clear eyes, his bearing, argued strongly in favor of his sanity. Perhaps the man was possessed of some Old Testament spirit of vengeance; perhaps here was a Northern relative of the blood feud of the Kentucky mountains. In spite of himself he felt apprehensive for Moran’s sake. “You want proofs, eh? Be you enured to walkin’?” “I’ll do my best,” said Jim. “Seven miles to the loggin’-road,” said Steve. “I’d better care for my horse then.” “I’ll see to him. You set right where you be.” It was a command. Jim recognized it as such and obeyed. It was not long before Steve returned. He did not take Jim to his shanty as he had taken Dolf Springer, but led him straight through the woods toward the southeast. Steve tramped silently. The things his eyes saw, the things his ears heard, and the thoughts moving in his mind were company enough for him. As for Jim, he had difficulty enough maintaining the pace without wasting breath in unnecessary words. After an hour’s steady going Steve stopped suddenly. “Set,” he said. “You hain’t used to this.”