st-covered ankle showed between his rough brogan uppers and the
wrinkled legs of his butternut breeches. Across his mule's withers
balanced a rifle. His face was bearded and sad.

"Mornin' Rat-Ankle," drawled our driver, halting the team for converse.

"Mornin', Pate," came the nasal reply.

There was a long interval of silence while the mounted man contemplated
us with an unabashed stare. Finally he spoke again.

"Mornin', strangers," he said.

There followed a protracted series of questionings between the native
born as to the health and well being of their respective families.

I thought I saw the mountaineer's eyes glitter with sudden interest when
Weighborne's name was given him, but the light died quickly out of his
pupils, leaving only the weariness and sadness of his dull life.

At times the climbs were so steep that we had to trudge alongside,
lending a hand at the wheels. The last two miles of the journey, said
our driver, would be impassable for a wheeled vehicle. He would have to
deposit us and our luggage at Chicken-Gizzard Creek. A little later,
while we were walking up a steep incline, Weighborne drew me back out of
earshot of the teamster.

"I'd better post you on a few details," he said. "Ever hear of the
Keithley assassination?"

I shook my head.

"Keithley was the prosecuting attorney in some rather celebrated murder
trials. He was shot to death one afternoon as he came out of the
court-room."

"Yes?" I questioned.

"Six months later Con Hoover was shot from the laurel on this road. He
had allied himself with those who sought to avenge Keithley."

I nodded my head.

"There were Cale Springer, Bud Dode--I could enumerate other victims,
but that is all unnecessary detail. What concerns us is this. Jim Garvin
is county judge. In a rough way he is the political boss of the region
and he has built up a fortune. His own gun is unnotched, but a
half-dozen men who have incurred his displeasure have come to abrupt
ends. The newspapers in Louisville and Lexington have intimated that
besides being at the head of fiscal affairs and operating a general
store the judge also issues his orders to a murder syndicate."

"Why," I demanded in some disgust, "hasn't it been proven?"

"It is difficult to prove things of this sort--when the defendant is
more powerful than the law and when juries walk in terror," Weighborne
reminded me. "He has twice been tried for complicity. A company of state
guards pat