She took her hands away from her temples and looked at him with a white face, and in the unhappy honesty of her eyes the man read his answer. It was as if she had said, "My heart lies over there in _his_ grave," and slowly, gravely Turner nodded his head. His face had gone gray, but through its misery it held a stamp of gentleness. "I understands ye," he said simply. "I won't never pester ye no more." Then as some note of alarm came to his ears he wheeled, all alertness again and his hand was once more gripping his pistol. "I've only got three ca'tridges left," he said to himself. "Hit's nip an' tuck now which git hyar fust." As he reached the mouth of the cave a shout came out of the darkness. "Ratler, air ye in thar?" and out into the night went the defiant response. "No, Ratler hain't hyar, but Bear Cat Stacy's hyar. Come on an' git me ef ye wants me." There was a silence after that, which he knew meant a parley. As he knelt waiting he felt a hand on his shoulder and with eyes still searching the ominous darkness he spoke low, in a trained effort at self-control: "Blossom, hit looks like we're trapped. Ye came inter this peril in an effort ter save me--an' I fears hit's goin' ter be hopeless. I hain't got but three ca'tridges left." "Save one of 'em, Turney," she said without a tremor in her voice. "Shoot twice ef ye wants ter do hit--an' then give ther pistol ter me. I kain't bear ter fall inter their hands again." Then as they counted the seconds they heard another sound. From across the nearer crests lusty voices, raised in unison, were chanting. Turner even fancied he could distinguish the familiar words, "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." There was a clatter of gravel under dispersing footsteps and a low wake of frightened oaths--and the night had taken the attacking party to itself. * * * * * The Stacys had pressing topics to discuss. The activities of their young kinsman were no longer a matter of theory but a condition, and their clan attitude toward him must be determined. Was he to be regarded as a renegade or as one still entitled to recognition? At the house of Joe Stacy on a cold winter day a dozen of the elders gathered to discuss this matter. "Bear Cat's done cast off all regards fer fam'ly loyalty," cried out a turbulent spirit whose eyes and voice bespoke fellowship with the jug. "He's makin' war on everything we've ever stood fer. Thet damned furriner bewitched him, I reckon. He's jest rampagin' round with a passel of wuthless Stacys and Towerses alike, destroyin' propitty. He's stirrin' up ther cast-offs an' woods-colts of both factions an' he hain't nuthin' more ner less then a damn' traitor." But Joe Stacy, steadier of balance, thrust himself into the discussion.