ck sheep of
their flock in open declaration, nor yet totally relinquishing their
right to avenge him, if an outside hand fell upon him. Meanwhile, the
fiction of this young trouble-maker's charmed life was arousing the
superstitious to its acceptance as a sort of powerful fetish.

The very name Bear Cat was beginning to fall from the lips of
tow-headed children, with open-mouthed awe, like a term of witchcraft,
and this candid terror of children was, of course, only a reflection of
the unconfessed, yet profound impression, stamped upon the minds of
their elders.

"What ails everybody hyarabouts?" rumbled Kinnard over his evening
pipe. "Heretofore when a man needed killin' he's been kilt--an' thet's
all thar was ter hit. This young hellion walks inter sure death traps
an' walks out ergin. He falls over a clift inter a ragin' torrent--an'
slips through an army of men. In Satan's name, what air hit?"

Black Tom's rejoinder was not cheering: "Ef ye asks me, I think all
these stories of witchcraft, backed up by his luck, hes cast a spell on
folks. They thinks Bear Cat's in league with grave-yard spooks."

Kinnard knocked the ashes out of his pipe. His lips curled
contemptuously. "An' es fer yoreself--does you take stock in thet damn'
foolery, too?"

"I hain't talkin' erbout myself," retorted Tom sullenly. "Ye asked
erbout what folks was cogitatin' an' I'm a-tellin' ye. If ye don't
believe thar's a notion thet graves opens an' ther dead fights with
him, jest go out an' talk ter these benighted hill-billies yoreself. If
evidence air what ye wants, ye'll git a lavish of hit."

Those who were in Bear Cat's confidence constituted a close
corporation, and they were not all, like Dog and Joe, men who mixed
also with the enemy, gaining information while they railed against
their own leader. There was talk of secret and mysterious meetings held
at midnight by oath-bound men--to whom flowed a tide of recruits.

Kinnard believed these meetings to be a part of the general myth. His
crude but effective secret service could gather no tangible evidence in
support of their storied sessions.

One evening report drifted in to the Quarterhouse that some one had
seen Bear Cat Stacy at a point not far distant, and that he had been
boldly walking the open road--unaccompanied. Within the hour a party
was out, supplied with jugs and bottles enough to keep the vengeful
fires well fueled throughout the night. It was an evil-looking squad,
a