Ross’s cool assurance awed Larkin to silence. A moment he looked at the young man in utter amazement. Then he turned and bent over his daughter and, lifting her to her feet, cried roughly: “Come, my young lady, an’ go to the house with me. I’ll see to it that you don’t meet that scalawag ag’in.” “Good-by, Amy,” Ross called as he turned to leave the spot. “Good-by, Ross,” she sobbed faintly. “I didn’t mean what I said. I’ll—I’ll—be true——” But her father clapped his hand over her mouth and shouted over his shoulder: “George Hilliard, why don’t you break every bone in that insolent scoundrel’s body?” Up to this time the thick-set man had maintained a discreet silence. Now he felt called upon to defend himself against the imputation of cowardice, implied in Larkin’s question. So he replied valiantly: “That’s just what I’m going to do if he don’t make himself scarce around here in about ten seconds.” These words fell upon Ross Douglas’s ears and roused him to instant fury. He had borne much—he could bear no more. Whirling in his tracks, he dealt Hilliard a blow that felled him to the earth. For a few seconds the prostrate man glared confusedly around him. Then with cat-like quickness he sprang to his feet and threw his gun to his shoulder. He was insane with rage. The light of murder twinkled in his small pig-like eyes. His finger was upon the trigger of his weapon. But he encountered Ross’s look of steadfast courage—and hesitated. “Shoot him!” Larkin bellowed. “Shoot him in self-defense!” Hilliard bent his head and squinted along the gleaming barrel of his rifle. Douglas whipped out his knife and sprang toward his adversary. But quick as were his movements, he would have been too late had not a trusty friend been at hand. With a low, fierce growl Duke bounded from the underbrush, where he had been crouching, and landed full upon Hilliard’s chest. The gun cracked, but the bullet sped harmlessly over Ross’s head. Amy ran screaming toward the cabin. Her father, with a muttered oath, strode toward the scene of conflict. Duke sought to fasten his fangs in Hilliard’s throat. Gun, man, and dog went to the ground together. “Loose him, Duke! Loose him!” Douglas commanded. The hound obeyed, and crept whining to his master’s feet. Blood was streaming from Hilliard’s shoulder, where the dog had set his teeth. “Curse you! I’ll finish you!” Larkin shrieked frantically, flinging his piece to his shoulder and taking deliberate aim at Ross. “Go slow there, ol’ man, ’r you’ll never know what hurt you,” said a drawling voice. “Drop that gun an’ behave y’rself, ’r I’ll put a chunk o’ cold lead into you—I will, by Hanner Ann!” And two shimmering gun-barrels protruded from the green foliage. Larkin obeyed, and leaned against a sapling, panting. With some difficulty Hilliard got upon his feet. His flabby face was pale; his hairy hands were trembling. Farley and Bright Wing stepped into the glade.