bosom. Perhaps, cognizant alike of
tempest and calm, it recognized this son's kinship with itself. The
prophecy which dwells in the immemorial may have foreseen gathering
powers of hurricane and might, which should some day make him rise,
above lesser summits. Possibly as he slept the great, silent voices
were crooning a lullaby over offspring destined for mastery.

* * * * *

When Ratler Webb had turned away from the tub-mill his brain was still
half stunned from the jarring punishment of battle. He was thoroughly
conscious only of deep chagrin and a gnawing hunger for reprisal.

From childhood he retained no tender memories.

There was no one upon whom he had a claim of blood, and neighborhood
report had not let him forget that he was a woodscolt. In hill parlance
a woodscolt signifies one whose birth has been sanctioned by no prior
rites of matrimony.

Since he could remember he had existed only by virtue of the same
predatory boldness which gives the lean razor-back strength and innate
craftiness to live.

Just now his whole abundant capacity for hatred was centered on Bear
Cat Stacy, yet since Bear Cat's kinsmen peopled every creek and
spring-branch of this country he could not be casually murdered.

Any word slipped to the ear of the revenue man might be traced back to
him and after that he could no longer live among his native hills.
Still, he reflected as he slowly rubbed his fingers along his uneven
nose, time brings changes and chances. The possession of definite
evidence against his enemy might some day bear fruit.

So Ratler did not ride home after his encounter at the mill. He took
refuge instead in an abandoned cabin of which he knew, strategically
located within a mile of the place where he had surmised the Stacy
family were making illicit whiskey. While the storm raged, threatening
to bring down the sagging roof timbers about his ears, he sat before
its dead and ruined hearth, entertaining bitter thoughts.

Between midnight and dawn he stepped over the broken threshold and
began his reconnaissance. For two hours he crouched, wet and cramped,
in the laurel near enough to throw a stone against the kettle of the
primitive distillery--waiting for that moment of relaxed vigilance,
when the figure that moved in the shadows should permit a ray from the
fire to fall upon its features.

When dawn had almost come his vigil was rewarded and he had turned away
aga