The young men with him went about their business with perfect calmness, although the eye of each was alert and glittering. They took their stations under the leadership of the man who they now regarded as the chieftain of their clan, and watched him go to what seemed certain death. Joslin advanced steadily to the door, his thumbs in the waist band of his trousers. With his left hand he knocked loudly on the jamb of the door. He spoke to some one, apparently an acquaintance, who noticed him. “Is Absalom Gannt here?” he demanded. “If he is, tell him to come out. I’ll wait till he comes out fair.” “Good God A’mighty, Davy,” said the other who stood within. “Air ye atter trouble? This is jest a little frolic.” “Tell him to come out,” repeated Joslin. “I want Absalom Gannt!” The courage of this deed went into the sagas of the Cumberlands—the act of a man who scorned certain death. It must have been some friend of Absalom Gannt, some relative perhaps, who heard this summons and saw the gray face of David Joslin staring into the half-darkened interior. With a shout he himself sprang to the door, gun in hand. Joslin leaped aside. As he did so he heard the roar of a heavy revolver back of him. Chan Bullock, the long blue barrel of his six-shooter resting on his arm at the top of the protecting boulder, fired at the man who appeared in the door. The latter fell forward and slouched over on his face, his head on his arms. A half instant of silence, then came the roar of a pistol at the window near where Joslin stood. The men at the boulders, in turn, began firing generously at every crack and cranny of the house, regardless of who or what might be within. The marksman at the window was deliberate. With care he rested the barrel of his weapon against the window sash. At its third report, Joslin heard back of him a heavy groan, but he did not see Calvin Trasker roll over on his back, his doubled arm across his face. The sound of gunfire now was general on every side. None might say who was harmed, who as yet was safe. As for Joslin, he had work to do. Absalom Gannt was still inside the house. He stepped forward again deliberately to the door, pushed aside the man who stood there peering out, and broke his way into the crowd. Two or three women, cowering, shrank into the farther corner of the room. Men stood here and there, each with weapon in hand. The acrid taste of gunpowder, which hung in the blue pall of smoke, was in the nostrils of all. “Absalom Gannt!” rose the high, clear voice of David Joslin, “I’ve come fer ye. Come out here an’ meet me fair if ye hain’t a coward. Absalom Gannt! Absalom Gannt——” That was the last word the friends of David Joslin heard him speak, and, as they told the story, it was apparent that the Joslin blood “never flickered onct.”