For a moment Hatfield's face was a picture of dismay. He was dumb and plainly beyond any expression. Presently Johnse spoke. "I see thar game--course thar's a traitor, but I 'low it hain't Orlick--they wanted t' beat yo'-all back, thinkin' yo' wouldn't be a lookin' fer 'em so soon--an' he war a spyin' on yore house, aimin' t' foller yo'-all to th' still--then raid us--but I changed his tune." "I hope yo' hain't kilt em--'cause he belongs to Cap Lutts's boy--to me----" "I kilt em, Lem--I had t'." Lem still stared incredulously at Hatfield's grim, bearded face. "Come 'long, Johnse!" exclaimed Lem decisively. "I 'low yo' believe yo' kilt em--but yo' can't lead me t' his daid body--yo' can't," declared Lem dubiously. Gripping his Winchester, Lem started away down the trail on a run, with Hatfield and little Bud loping along after him. When they arrived within sight of the place indicated by Hatfield as the spot where he had seen the revenuer's head disappear, the trio fell upon their knees, and crept cautiously along, with rifles ready and eyes alert. In a dense clump of laurel brush between two great dun rocks, they came upon a tan felt hat lying in a wide circle of dark blood. A few paces away lay a silver-mounted Winchester rifle. Lem knew the gun; the instant he laid eyes on the piece, he knew it was the property of Pete Burton, the revenuer. The front of the hat, just above the band, was slit open for six inches or more, as if cut with a knife. Lem's eyes glowed like fire-balls, as he examined the gun and passing it to Bud to carry, he turned upon Hatfield, who stood speechless eyeing the blood. "Yo' said yo'd show me his daid body, Johnse--do yo' see hit?" Lem emitted a bitter, derisive laugh. Hatfield's hairy visage was the picture of dumb bewilderment. "Johnse Hatfield," began Lem solemnly, "could any man thet Gawd'll Moughty made human lose all thet blood and not stay heah, on thes spot?--eh? I kin tell from his hat yore bullet swiped em 'long th' forehead,--yo' hain't kilt em--yo'll never kill em--I'll never kill em--nobuddy'll ever kill em, Johnse Hatfield!--ef he wus a human bein' my pap would a got em 'long 'go--Johnse, when yo'-all kills a eagle yo' takes a bead on em pint-blank first, don't yo'?--sho'--yo' don't shoot at his shadder skimmin' along on th' ground under him, do yo'?--no. But when yo' shoot at this cussed revenuer yo' mought as well shoot at his shadder's fer's killin' him goes--he air a ghost. But I'll never stop tryin' t' git em anyways--I feel that I'll never git em--leastways hits soothin' t' be always a tryin'--cum 'long, Johnse."