t of the gathering. The
old man shook with rage and his voice quavered.

"By God," he roared, "thet boy's plumb crazed. He's got ter be
handled--an' checked. I suffered him ter bust up my old still 'cause I
knowed ther new one was a-comin', but now he's busted up ther new one,
too. Hit war a beautiful piece of copper--an' right hard ter smuggle
in."

The group of elders regarded the old blockader with varying emotions,
as he stood glaring with an ember-like ferocity which he genuinely
believed to be righteous indignation. But Joe Stacy, his own brother,
permitted his shrewd eyes to twinkle as he laid a calming hand on the
anger-palsied shoulder of the new arrival.

"Wa'al now, Turner," he suggested dryly, "by yore own showin' ye lied
ter ther boy an' consented ter quit stillin'. Hit's right sensibly like
these-hyar other outrages thet's done been reported. He hain't nuver
interfered with no man's _lawful_ business yit--an' albeit I don't know
who ther fellers air thet rides with him by night, I kin discarn right
well by thar way they does things thet thar hain't no licker-befuddled
folks amongst 'em." Suddenly the speaker's voice rose. "An', by God, I
knows another thing besides thet! I knows thet some fellers roundabout,
thet used ter be red-eyed an' sullen-visaged, kin look a man straight
in ther face ter-day, clear-sighted an' high-headed. I've got a notion
thet ye kin jest erbout identify these-hyar outlaws by ther way they
carries thar chins high."

"What law air thar fer a man ter sot out compellin' other men ter adopt
his notions, I wants ter know?" came the fierce demand, and Joe Stacy
smiled.

"Thet's a fa'r question," he admitted, "an' I'll meet hit with an
answer ther minit' ye tells me what law thar air fer blockadin'."

* * * * *

One morning Bear Cat was coming along the road when he heard voices
beyond the bend, and turned into the brush. Looking out, he saw such a
strange procession that he emerged again.

A man whose back was stooped, and whose face wore a dull stamp of
hopelessness, trudged along, carrying a bundle over his shoulder and a
dilapidated carpet-bag in one hand. Behind him trailed three small
children, the largest two also staggering under rough bundles.

"Whar be ye a-goin', Matthew Blakey?" hailed Stacy, and the man halted.
He opened a mouth well-nigh toothless, though he was yet young, and
replied in a tone of deep depression. "I'm fari