He offered his hand to young Jake with the declaration: "Jake, I aims to see that the trials for your pappy's killin' are on the dead square." After a moment of hesitation and to the astonishment of everyone, the young feudist accepted and shook the proffered hand, which, though he did not know it, had directed the assassination of his sire. In about ten minutes, the three Falkins men and their hostage returned to the steps, where McAllister and Henry still waited, and in final ceremony the three Spooners gravely shook hands with the three Falkinses. Upon that signal, the clear space of the pathway overflowed, and the men on both sides mingled. Flasks appeared, and enemy drank with enemy. The truce was signed. Henry Falkins heard one old man from far back in the hills say to another, equally old, to whom he had not spoken in years: "Jesse, you damned old sinner, why hain't ye nuver come over ter buy them hawgs offen me thet ye traded fer ten year back?" And the other man laughed shrilly, and retorted: "Why you dod-gasted ol' rascal, I knew too durn well ye'd swindle me." And then with loud guffaws of laughter they passed and tilted the flask, and hobbled away arm-in-arm. From the window of a house on Main Street, commanding the rutty thoroughfare which glared in the yellow July sun, Minerva looked out at the scene of reconciliation, and her heart beat with relief. A day of bloodshed had been averted, and the man she had ridden a dangerous road to warn walked in safety with his shoulders drawn back and his face smiling. For a moment, the girl wished that he might know how, since that day when he handed her the medal, she had carried his image in her heart--but, of course, if he remembered her at all, it must be only as one of the children of the old benighted order who were availing themselves of the light from the torch of which he had so eloquently spoken. But in all this peace-making one man saw only defeat. Newt Spooner with heavy heart had left the crowd, and mounted his horse. Despair had settled on his soul, for now to kill Henry Falkins would be an impossibility. But as he rode into Main Street, crowded with indiscriminately mingled factions, he saw McAllister Falkins a half-block away and his son Henry, walking side by side. Then, suddenly, Newt Spooner saw all things through a fog of crimson. The blood leaped to his temples and pounded there. He had made no truce, had signed no pledge, was bound by no man's bond. He would kill Henry Falkins here and now, and then go down like a mad mullah, satisfied to pay the penalty with his own life. He cocked the rifle and swung sidewise in his saddle, supporting his weight on one leg, so that he might face the better to the side. Then he kicked both heels into the sides of the old nag, and went yelling and careening down the street, to overtake his victim and defy both clans.