It was two years before a vague stirring came into the life of the little settlement near which he had lived. Then, upon a certain day of the late summer time, there came winding down the rugged pathways of the Cumberland coves, along the rocky creek bottoms, and at length along the well-beaten trails of the larger streams, little groups of riders. For the most part they were tall and silent men, their eyes watchful as they rode. All of them were armed. In many cases a woman sat back of her husband on the family mule. It was a gathering of the clans, and it was well known that in case a man were hurt, his own women folks could nurse him better than anyone else. As for that, the women of the mountains were as grim and savage as their lords and masters. Slowly, steadily, watchful, alert, these strange people of the hills came riding down, the little threads of the broken procession converging toward the Forks where, so went the vague word, there was going to be a sort of meeting for a day or two—for what purpose, few seemed to know. The general understanding was that this meeting was to be held at the old mill building across the river. The village postmaster and the village blacksmith had passed the assembly call impartially. There was other advice of import tacitly accepted, but, while it was generally understood that there might be, and probably would be, a reckoning between the tribes of the Gannts and the Joslins, those not immediately concerned in the family quarrel treated both parties with politeness. To carry word from one to the other would have been an act of treason, and punishable by the unwritten law of that country. Men went about their daily duties and talked little even to their own families. The single street of the little village—scarce half a hundred houses and shops in all—was filled now with groups of men idly strolling, every one of than armed, old and young. Among these were boys, some not older than fifteen years, yet each confident in his own ability to draw quick and hold straight, and longing for the chance. The fingers of many a youth itched to get at the handle of the brand-new gun with which before now he had practiced so faithfully, saving his coppers for “hulls” to feed it. The older men strolled about unagitated. Group passed group upon the street, each man staring into the eyes of his enemy, his own face immobile, over his eye an impenetrable film—the eye of the dangerous man. Men who casually estimated the respective representation of the Joslins and the Gannts thought there were forty or fifty men on each side. It was doubted if half of these would ever get out of town unhurt. The sheriff was somewhere far to the west, at the county seat. There was no peace officer, nor would it have been a good place for one. It was a meeting of the clans. The Cumberlands were going about their ancient business in their own ancient way.