Here any one not an initiate to the mysteries of this inner shrine would have wondered to the degree of amazement, for this newcomer was an ostensible enemy of Bas Rowlett's whom in other company he refused to recognize. But Sim Squires entered unhesitatingly and now between himself and the man with whom he did not speak in public passed a nod and glance of complete harmony and understanding. When certain subsidiary affairs had been adjusted--all matters of upbuilding for Rowlett's influence and repute--Bas turned to Sim Squires. "Sim," he said, genially, "I reckon we're ready ter heer what ye've got on _yore_ mind now," and the other grinned. "Ther Thorntons an' Harpers--them thet dwells furthest back in ther sticks--air a doin' a heap of buzzin' an' talkin'. They're right sim'lar ter bees gittin' ready ter swarm. I've done seed ter that. I reckon when this hyar stranger starts in ter rob ther honey outen thet hive he's goin' ter find a tol'able nasty lot of stingers on his hands." "Ye've done cautioned 'em not ter make no move afore they gits ther word, hain't ye--an' ye've done persuaded 'em ye plum hates me, hain't ye?" Again Sim grinned. "Satan hisself would git rightfully insulted ef anybody cussed an' damned him like I've done _you_, Bas." "All right then. I reckon when ther time comes both ther Doanes and Harpers'll be right sick of Mr. Cal Maggard or Mr. Parish Thornton or Mr. Who-ever-he-is." They talked well into the night, and Peter Doane was the first to leave, but after his departure Sim Squires permitted a glint of deep anxiety to show in his narrow and shifty eyes. "Hit's yore own business ef ye confidences Pete Doane in yore own behalf, Bas," he suggested, "but ye hain't told him nuthin' erbout _me_, hes ye?" Bas Rowlett smiled. "I hain't no damn fool, Sim," he reassured. "Thar don't nobody but jest me an' you know thet ye shot Cal Maggard--but ye war sich a damn disable feller on ther job thet rightly I ought ter tell yore name ter ther circuit-rider." "What fer?" growled the hireling, sulkily, and the master laughed. "So's he could put hit in his give-out at meetin' an shame ye afore all mankind," he made urbane explanation. * * * * * July, which began fresh and cool, burned, that year, into a scorching heat, until the torrid skies bent in a blue arch of arid cruelty and the ridges stood starkly stripped of their moisture. Forests were rusted and freckled and roads gave off a choke of dust to catch the breath of travellers as the heat waves trembled feverishly across the clear, hot distances. Like a barometer of that scorched torpor, before the eyes of the slowly convalescing Thornton stood the walnut tree in the dooryard. A little while ago it had spread its fresh and youthful canopy of green overhead in unstinted abundance of vigour.