d faces.

Then it all ended abruptly. Bear Cat wrenched himself free and sent a
chance blow, but one behind which went all his weight and passion, to
the other's mouth. The smitten head went back with a jerk. Webb reeled
groggily for an instant, then crumpled, but before he had quite fallen
Stacy, with an insensate fury, was dragging him to his feet and
clutching at the throat which his fingers ached to strangle.

At that instant, the old miller seized his arms.

"Hold on thar, Bear Cat," he cried with his quavering voice. "He's
already licked. You'll kill him ef ye hain't heedful."

"I _aims_ ter kill him," panted the boy, casting off the interference
of aged arms with the savagery of a dog whose fangs have been pried too
soon from the throat of its victim.

But Bud Jason clung on, reiterating: "Fer shame, son! Thet hain't
_yore_ manner of conduct. Fer shame!"

Unsteadily, then, with a slow dawning of reason Bear Cat Stacy
staggered back and leaned heavily against the wall of the tub-mill,
breathing in sob-like gasps. His shirt was half torn from his body and
for the first time the miller saw the ugly gash where a pistol bullet
had bitten its grazing course along his left shoulder. Grime and blood
stained him and for a while he stood gazing down on the collapsed
figure at his feet--a figure that stirred gropingly.

"I reckon," he said slowly, "I'd jest about hev finished him, ef hit
hadn't a-been fer _you_, Bud. I'm beholden ter ye. I reckon I was
seein' red."

Together they lifted Ratler Webb and gave him water from the gourd that
hung by the door. When he was able to stand, dourly resentful, baleful
of eye but mute as to tongue, Bear Cat spoke briefly with the victor's
authority:

"I aims ter keep thet pistol o' your'n fer a spell, Ratler. I don't
hardly trust ye with hit jest yit. When ye wants hit, come by my house
and ask fer hit."

The bully turned sullenly away. He spoke no word of farewell and
offered no protest, but when he was out of sight the miller shook his
head and his voice was troubled.

"Of course ye knows, son, thet he hain't never agoin' ter fergit hit?
So long as ther two of ye lives ye've got ter keep on watchin' him."

Turner nodded. He was bathing his shoulder and spreading cobwebs on its
grazed wound.

"I've done wasted a heap of time," he said irrelevantly. "An' hit's
comin' on to rain, too. I reckon I'll be benighted afore I gets over
ter ther still."

Starting away, he paus