And what were the antecedents of this crankish old woman? Her grandfather was hanged, one of John A. Murrell's robbers; and when she was a girl, her father fortified his log house and fought the law that strove to oust him for lack of title. She had moulded bullets; and when both her father and mother had been wounded, she thrust a blunderbuss through the window and with buck-shot swept a bloody road. But her generous heart had kept her poor, and her back was bending with years made heavy by loss of sleep, sitting up, nursing the sick. While she was stirring about, making ready for supper, Margaret, giving to herself a sudden straightening, stepped forward and remarked: "Now, Miz Spencer, you air mistaken if you think you air any gamer than I am. Why, if necessity demanded, I could load a shot-gun with tears an' scald a enemy to death. I don't know quite as much about my folks as you do yourn, but I kin ricolleck a red puddle on the doorstep. So now, we air standin' on equal ground. Miz Barker, I reckon it's yo' nature to cry, so jest pitch in an' cry all you want to while we air gittin' supper; an' then in the night, I'll change yo' pillow every time it gits too wet fur you." "Gracious me, I don't want to cry that bad," Mrs. Barker replied. "There's a time for all things, an' I'm from a fightin' fam'ly, too, I'll give you to understand. Have you got any right young pigs? If you have, suppose we kill one an' roast it--'twon't take long." This suggestion met with approval, and with the help of Kintchin, helloaed out of a nap behind the smoke-house, a pig was slaughtered and barbecued. In Old Jasper's house that night there was a feast--a strange picture, three old women at table and an old negro, with watery mouth, standing in the door. With the coming of daylight Margaret arose while yet the others slept, and breakfast was ready with the rising of the sun. "You must be plannin' a big day's work," said Mrs. Spencer, and Margaret replied: "Yes, for I can't see the end of it. Kintchin, ketch the gray mare an' put the side saddle on her. An' now, you folks kin stay here jest as long as you please." "Why, where air you goin'?" Mrs. Barker inquired; and Margaret, putting a pistol in the pocket of her dress, dropped a courtesy and said: "To the jail." CHAPTER XXIII. A TRIP NOT WITHOUT INCIDENT. With a few silver dollars in her pocket, chinking against the steel of her pistol, Margaret jogged along the road. In observation the mountaineer is always minute; each day is a volume unto itself, and in this book abound many pictures. In a thorn-bush the old woman saw a mocking-bird feeding her young; in the dust she saw where a snake had smoothed his way across the road. She halted to look at a bare-legged boy, who with his straw hat was seining a rivulet.