But success attended the caucus; each mother emerged, satisfied that she had received her own, and each sire, now that his family was itself again, began to look at his neighbor sideways. After a man has been angry enough to kill another man, after the fire of righteous slaughter has raged in his heart as it had certainly raged for several hours in the hearts of these fathers, the flame will usually burn itself out. This will be so in a generous nature, unless the cause of the anger is still unchanged. But the children had been identified; none had taken hurt. All had been humanely given their nourishment. The thing was over. The day was beautiful. A tempting feast remained from the barbecue. These Bear Creek fathers could not keep their ire at red heat. Most of them, being as yet more their wives’ lovers than their children’s parents, began to see the mirthful side of the adventure; and they ceased to feel very severely toward Lin McLean. Not so the women. They cried for vengeance; but they cried in vain, and were met with smiles. Mrs. Westfall argued long that punishment should be dealt the offender. “Anyway,” she persisted, “it was real defiant of him putting that up on the tree. I might forgive him but for that.” “Yes,” spoke the Virginian in their midst, “that wasn’t sort o’ right. Especially as I am the man you’re huntin’.” They sat dumb at his assurance. “Come and kill me,” he continued, round upon the party. “I’ll not resist.” But they could not resist the way in which he had looked round upon them. He had chosen the right moment for his confession, as a captain of a horse awaits the proper time for a charge. Some rebukes he did receive; the worst came from the mothers. And all that he could say for himself was, “I am getting off too easy.” “But what was your point?” said Westfall. “Blamed if I know any more. I expect it must have been the whiskey.” “I would mind it less,” said Mrs. Westfall, “if you looked a bit sorry or ashamed.” The Virginian shook his head at her penitently. “I’m tryin’ to,” he said. And thus he sat disarming his accusers until they began to lunch upon the copious remnants of the barbecue. He did not join them at this meal. In telling you that Mrs. Dow was the only lady absent upon this historic morning, I was guilty of an inadvertence. There was one other. The Virginian rode away sedately through the autumn sunshine; and as he went he asked his Monte horse a question. “Do yu’ reckon she’ll have forgotten you too, you pie-biter?” said he. Instead of the new trousers, the cow-puncher’s leathern chaps were on his legs. But he had the new scarf knotted at his neck. Most men would gladly have equalled him in appearance. “You Monte,” said he, “will she be at home?” It was Sunday, and no school day, and he found her in her cabin that stood next the Taylors’ house. Her eyes were very bright. “I’d thought I’d just call,” said he. “Why, that’s such a pity! Mr. and Mrs. Taylor are away.”