"I suppose you have forgotten all your promises to us," said Virginia sadly. "I hain't broke a single promise to you," replied Fult, indignantly. "I don't break my word. Nary one of my crowd hain't done a bit of drinking or shooting yet, or broke the peace in any way." "But the liquor you are making?" "Hit ain't for this country. I aim to take hit to the Virginny line and sell hit there at the mines, where I can get a good price." "But you did let some of the younger boys get hold of some, didn't you?" "I give a jug unthoughted to Bob Ainslee for going an arrand, never thinking of him and t'other young boys getting drunk on hit." "Oh, why do you do these things which distress us so, and which are directly against the law?" implored Amy. "Laws hain't nothing to me if they're onjust," he declared, defiantly. "I don't think hit's wrong to use the corn I have raised in stilling liquor, or I wouldn't do hit. But," in a changed and troubled voice, "I wouldn't have had you women see this still for a thousand dollars." "Why?" "Oh, because you look at things different from me. You have got strange notions. You don't understand our ways up here." He cast a desperate, searching glance into Isabel's face, as if in the wild hope of finding some understanding and sympathy there. But her eyes were dropped; her body was drooping somewhat wearily. There seemed nothing more to be said on either side. The women turned slowly away and began their homeward walk. "Won't--won't you let me--or Charlie--see you safe home?" Fult asked, in a choked voice. "No, we feel safer alone, thank you," replied Virginia. And they walked on, leaving Fult standing like a statue in the moonlight. Three hours later, the six women on the hill were awakened from slumber by the most frightful sounds--rapid shooting, hard galloping, blood-curdling whoops and yells--down in the village street; and knew only too well that Fult and his crowd had drunk deeply and ridden in to "shoot up" the town. Compared with this, the scattering shots of the previous Saturday and Sunday nights had been but feeble child's-play. For an hour, death and destruction seemed to be let loose. The women lay trembling in their tents, hoping against hope that no one would be killed, feeling that their summer's work had been utterly in vain; while down in the village mothers crawled under beds with their children, and lay flattened against the floor, to dodge the flying bullets. Every person in the village sought safety but one. That one was Lethie. Directly over the street where the frenzied boys dashed back and forth, she knelt by her window, following Fult's figure in wild apprehension and terror, and sending up incoherent prayers for his safety. It was nights such as this which had saddened and aged the child beyond her years. IX THE DANGER LINE