il that quavered and rose and dwindled and
rose again. That clan-signal of the Stacys along the ridges meant
war--open and unmitigated war.

It was not merely a demonstration of inimical feeling but a definite
summons. The man of that blood who heard it needed no particulars. He
had his orders. Straightway he must arm and rally.

From her father's room came a deeply anguished groan and the muttering
of a prayer. He, too, had been awakened and realized that the "war" had
broken out afresh.

It was useless to try to sleep now. Blossom rose and threw fresh fagots
on the fire. She dressed and sat with her fingers twisting and her lips
trembling.

Once she stifled a scream at the rush of hoof-beats and the scatter of
gravel along the road, but the commotion went by in hot haste and
silence closed down again.

Eventually an abrupt shout sounded imperatively from just beyond the
door--a voice which Blossom did not recognize, and as she came to her
feet she heard her father's stern challenge, "Who's out thar?"

"Hit's Joe Sanders--an' I'm in haste!"

Despite the urgency of word and tone the preacher hesitated to demand:

"What business brings ye hyar in ther dead of night-time?"

"I've got Bear Cat Stacy an' Mr. Henderson. They're both sore wounded.
Fer God's sake, hasten!"

With a swiftness of motion that outstripped her father's, Blossom flung
herself forward and with feverish fingers was sliding the bar from its
sockets.

But while the preacher stood waiting, his lips drew themselves into an
unbending line and his shaggy brows lowered. Inwardly he was praying:
"Almighty God, I beseeches Ye ter strengthen me in this hour ter
fergive mine enemies--fer Thou knowest thar's murder in my heart!"

As the girl threw the door wide, she saw what seemed to be three
figures locked in a close embrace.

The trio lurched rather than stepped into the lighted area, and,
shrinking back horrified, Blossom saw Brother Fulkerson close his
house, his face marked, as she had never before seen it, with a grim
unwelcome.

Sanders carried in his arms a figure whose limbs fell in grotesque
inertia. Its clothing was torn by briars and bullets; matted with mire
and blood. Its face was half hidden by a rough bandage made from
Jerry's own handkerchief, upon which the stains had turned from red to
dull brown, except at the spots where the crimson had been renewed by
an unstaunched trickle.

Bear Cat stumbled across the threshold unaided