"Wal; ye'd better bring 'em all up hyar. I s'pose they're all's deep in the mud as you in the mire. Besides, it air too important a peint to be settled by depity. I'd like all o' yur lot to be on the groun' an' jedge for theerselves." "Agreed; they shall come. Bring them up, Bill." Bill does as directed, and the six young hunters are once more assembled in the glade; but with very different feelings from those stirring them when there before. Bill has told them all, even to the proposal made by Rook; and they sit upon their horses downcast, ready to consent to his terms. "Six o' ye," says the hunter, apparently calculating the price of the silence to be imposed on him; "all o' ye sons o' rich men, and all able to pay me a hundred dollars a-year for the term o' my nateral life. Six hundred dollars. 'Tain't much to talk abeout; jess keep my old carcase from starvin'. Huntin's gone to the dogs 'bout hyar, an' you fellars hev hed somethin' to do in sendin' it thar. So on that account o' itself ye oughter be only too happy in purvidin' for one whose business ye've speiled. It air only by way o' a penshun. Hundred dollars apiece, and that reg'larly paid _pre-annum_. Ye all know what 'tis for. Do ye consent?" "I do." "And I." "And I." And so signify the six. "Wal, then, ye may go hum; ye'll hear no more 'beout this bizness from me, 'ceptin' any o' ye shed be sech a dod-rotted fool as ter fall behind wi' yur payments. Ef ye do, by the Eturnal--" "You needn't, Jerry Rook," interposes Brandon, to avoid hearing the threat; "you may depend upon us. I shall myself be responsible for all." "Enuf sed. Abeout this bar skin hanging on the tree. I 'spose ye don't want to take that wi' ye? I may take' it, may I, by way o' earnest to the bargain?" No one opposes the request. The old hunter is made welcome to the spoils of the chase, both those on the spot and in the forest further off. They who obtained them are but too glad to surrender every souvenir that may remind them of that ill-spent day. Slow, and with bitter thoughts, they ride off, each to return to his own home, leaving Jerry Rook alone to chuckle over the accursed compact. And this does he to his satisfaction. "Now!" cries he, sweeping the bear's skin from the branch, and striding off along the trace; "now to make things squar wi' Dick Tarleton. Ef I ken do thet, I'll sot this day down in the kullinder as bein' the luckiest o' my life." The sound of human voices has ceased in the glade. There is heard only the "whish" of wings as the buzzards return to their interrupted repast. STORY ONE, CHAPTER TEN. VOWS OF VENGEANCE. The sun is down, and there is deep darkness over the firmament; deeper under the shadows of the forest. But for the gleam of the lightning bugs, the forms of two men standing under the trees could scarce be distinguished.