“Whoopee!” he exclaimed, throwing up a hand. “I’m the ole blue hen’s chicken! I kin outwrastle er outjump er outshoot ary man here er anywhar’s else.” “Ye wouldn’t say that if old Absalom war here,” laughed a nearby occupant of a rude bench. “No, nor if Old Man Joslin war, neither.” “I would too! I hain’t a-skeered o’ nobody,” replied the warlike youth. “I’ll show ary of ‘em.” “_What’ll ye show us?_” demanded David Joslin. Silent as an Indian he had left the fringe of cover, and stood now in the open, his eyes steady, his arms folded, looking at the men before him. And now at his side and back of him ranged his little body of clansmen. Sudden silence fell upon all those thus surprised. They looked at him in amazement. “Whar’s old Absalom?” he demanded of a man whom he knew, who stood, the half-finished cup of liquor still in his hand. “Air ye lookin’ to start ary diffikilty?” replied his neighbor, also with a question. “That’s fer us to say,” said David Joslin. “My daddy’s daid. He got hurt yesterday by old Absalom an’ his people. I come over here to-day to see old Absalom an’ ary kin he happens to have along with him. Whar is he?” Silence for a long time held the group. It behooved all to be cautious. “He’s been in here somewhar,” went on Joslin, “an’ he hain’t fur now. Tell me, is he down at the dance house?” “Well, ye mought go an’ see,” rejoined the first speaker, grinning. “Ye know, Dave Joslin, I hain’t got no quarl with ye, nor has ary o’ my people. Ye set right here now, boys,” he continued, sweeping out a long arm toward the merrymakers, who still lingered about the liquor barrel. “Thar’s more of them than thar is of ye,” he whispered hurriedly to Joslin as he stepped up. “The house is full, an’ they’re dancin’. Three or four gals from down on the Buffalo is in thar now. They’re havin’ a right big frolic.” Without a word Joslin turned and hurried down the path. He knew the location of the building to which reference had been made—a long log structure rudely floored with puncheons, sometimes employed locally as a sort of adjunct of the still. The sounds of dancing, the music of one or two reedy violins, the voice of a caller now and then, greeted the party of avengers who now approached this curious building hidden in the heart of the mountain wilderness. Whether or not all of the occupants of the dance house were of Absalom Gannt’s party, neither David Joslin nor any one else might tell. There might be a general mingling here of friend and foe until some overt act should light again the ancient fire, forever smouldering. Joslin beckoned to his companions. “Git behind them rocks right over thar, boys,” he whispered. “I’m a-goin’ up to the door.”