The gray streaks of dawn were appearing in the eastern horizon and there would likely be no more fighting. Judson and Wade were not far from home now. Being tired and sore, they rode on in silence. Jack Wade was no coward, a coward would never have undertaken the heavy task which he had, but he also was not fond of fighting. Had he lived in the mountains all his life he would have enjoyed the sport, but he had not, there was not so much sport in it for him as there was for old Peter Judson, who knew nothing else. The trouble between the Judson and Thompson factions could be dated back to the early days, when one Alex Judson, a very young man, shot to death one Bill Allen, a kinsman of the Thompsons, on the streets of the little village. Alex Judson flew to the mountains, and there arose two factions out of the killing. From time to time a Thompson or a Judson was picked off his saddle as he rode over the mountain in the dead of night, but after the death of Alex Judson the trouble had been patched up, and for years had lain still, but only sleeping, not dead. The history began before the present generation came into being, and old Peter's act in clipping Al Thompson's trigger finger off had opened the wound anew, the old sore bled, and the end of the trouble was not yet. All this and more Peter told Wade as they rode on toward home, finally pulling up at Wade's cabin. "An' now, Wade," said Peter, "ye air a Judson, an' ye can't expect anything but death. Somebody's a-goin' ter git killed afore this thing is over. Hit may be me, hit may be you, hit may be Jim Thompson or his son Al, an' hit may be Tom. Nobody knows who it will be till he's done fer." "I shall be satisfied," replied Wade. Jack watched the old man out of sorrowful eyes as he rode up the hill leading Tom's horse behind him.