Hank trudged a ring around the circle, growing more savage of temper at each pace. “Ef I thought so I’d kill him.” He cocked his head forward, but the wagon was seemingly quite far off, crawling over the pass, and he stared at the blank white wall with a growing ugliness. “Sakes, I ain’t no cussed farmer! Ain’t doin’ us any good hyar ef they didn’t mean to settle it fust. That old fool said this war the only good spot in the hull country.” A quiet suddenly descended; the booming of the wagon wheels no longer blended echoes with the clattering brook. One lone shout wafted back and that was all. Hank Emory halted dead in his tracks. “I ain’t to be fooled!” he burst out. “Durned ef I’ll be given the haw haw. Git yore horse, we’re goin’ after ’em.” “What fer? Most likely they’ll be squattin’ on a piece afore we c’n stop ’em.” “Then we’ll drive ’em off! Didn’t I say I’d get square fer that drubbin’--an’ fer bein’ used by that china-faced girl?” The trio tore away from the blaze; hoofs drummed in the sodden earth; the report trembled and vanished. It all happened swiftly. At one time they were about the fire; next instant they were gone. The flame leaped and swayed, the creek worried and foamed at the gravel banks. Then, without sound or warning Cameron and Warner slipped through the befogged alders to the fire. Warner’s face relaxed. “I reckon that’s what you mought call playin’ tag. They’re off an’ we’re on. Ef they ain’t staked corners we’re in lawful possession. I’ll mosey out and drive somethin’ in the corners ef thar ain’t nothin’ now, which will natcherly do it up brown fer us.” He galloped away. On another corner of the compass echoed the wagon again, not far off and coming rapidly to the urge of the bull whip. Cameron sang out, “Straight ahead. Come along.” At intervals he repeated it to give Follett his bearings. In five minutes the vehicle dropped into view like some pioneer chariot descending from the skies, and lumbered up to the fire. Follett jammed on the brakes. “It’s gettin’ lighter, seems to me. Sun’s tryin’ to git through. Susie--maw--come out an’ git warm! Hyars a fire, and it ain’t rainin’ fer a minute at least.” Once more the drumming of hoofs trembled through the mist. The trio were flying back. Tom Cameron slipped his revolver around and got from his horse. “Not yet. Back in the wagon, Susie. Thar’s apt to be a stray bullet or so in the next minute.” “Tom--there’s no need of spilt blood. I’d rather give in and try another place.” “Our own land? I give up nawthin’ to those sports.” “Right,” agreed Follett, crawling from the wagon seat. “It’s time to git shet o’ that pack o’ trouble. Git me the buffler gun, Susie.”