ed and turned shamefacedly back for a moment.

"Hit won't profit us none to norrate this matter abroad," he suggested.
"I've got enough name already fer gittin' into ructions. Paw don't like
hit none."

Gazing after the retreating figures the old man wagged his head and his
expression was one of foreboding.

"Meanness an' grudge-nursin' kin bring on a heap of pestilence," he
mused. "This Ratler will nurse his on ther bottle, an' he won't never
wean hit--an' some day----! But it don't profit a feller ter borry
trouble. These hills hes got enough misfortunes withouten thet."

Already twilight was settling over the valleys and the ridges were
starkly grim as their color died to the neutrality of night, and the
murk of a gathering storm.

CHAPTER IV

With a mutter of distant thunder in his ears, the young mountaineer
plodded "slavishly" on under his load as night closed about him. The
path twisted among heaped up bowlders where a misstep might mean broken
bones and crawled through entanglements of fallen timber: of gnarled
rhododendron and thorn-leaved holly. It wormed into dew-drenched
thicknesses where branches lashed the burden-bearer's face with the
sting of whips, and soon the colossal barriers began to echo with the
storm roar of high places. The clouds were ripped with the blue-white
blades of lightning. The rock walls of the ranges seemed quaking under
the thunder's incessant cannonading, and the wind's shrieking mania.
Then through the rent and buffeted timber-tops the rain burst in a
lashing curtain of water as violent as a shot-shower.

Bear Cat Stacy, wet to the skin, with the steaming sweat of toil and
fight turned into a marrow-pinching chill, cast about him for a place
where he could protect his sack of meal until an abatement should come
to the storm's violence.

As he sat under a dripping roof of shelving rock to which he had groped
his way by the beacon of the lightning, a startled owl swept past him,
almost brushing his face with its downy wings.

His wet clothes hung to his flesh with what seemed icy coldness. His
shoulder throbbed with an abomination of pain and his bones ached with
a dull wretchedness.

But after a time the wind and thunder dropped away to whimpering
echoes. It was as if the hound pack of the furies had been whistled in,
its hunt ended.

Turner rose and stamped his numbed feet. There was yet a long way to go
before he arrived at the low-built shed, thatched with b