aided Joe Simmons's still-house on
ther headwaters of Skinflint an' cyarried off a _beau_tiful piece o'
copper--atter they'd punched hit full o' holes."

"Revenuers!" Into the girl's voice now came a note of anxiety.

"Huh-huh, revenuers. Folks says they're gittin' bodaciously pesky these
days."

"Ye ain't--ye ain't seen none of 'em yourself, have ye, Leander?" The
question came a bit breathlessly and the boy forgot his bashfulness as
he expanded with the importance of his traveler's tales.

"Not to know 'em fer sich," he admitted, "but I met up with a furriner
a few leagues back along ther highway. He was broguein' along mighty
brash on his own two feet. La! But he was an elegant party ter be
a-ridin' on shoe-leather, though!"

"What manner of furriner was he, Leander?" demanded Blossom with a
clutch of fright at her heart, but the boy shook his head stupidly.

"Wa'al he was jest a feller from down below. Ter tell hit proper, I
didn't hev much speech with him. We jest met an' made our manners an'
went our ways. He 'lowed ter go ter Lone Stacy's house."

"Lone Stacy's house," echoed the girl faintly.

"Reckon' I'll be a-ridin' on," drawled the young horseman nonchalantly.
"Reckon I've done told ye all ther tidings I knows."

Blossom stood, for a while, rooted where he had left her, listening to
the splash of the mule's feet along the creek. If a prying eye should
discover the Stacy still to-day it would find not only "a beautiful
piece of copper" but Bear Cat lying there incapacitated and helpless!

Her heart missed its beat at the thought. The hills seemed to close in
on her stiflingly with all their age-old oppression of fears and
impending tragedies, and she sat down by the roadside to think it out.
What should she do?

After a while she saw the tall figure of the elder Stacy climbing the
mountainside, but he was taking a short cut--and would not come within
hailing distance. Her eye, trained to read indications, noted that a
rifle swung in his right hand.

Bitterly she had been taught by her father to resent the illicit
business to which Turner's service was grudgingly given. But above all
ethical hatred of law-breaking rose the very present danger to Turner
himself. Laws were abstract things and Turner was Turner!

There was only one answer. She must watch and, if need arose, give
warning.

Just where the brook that trickled down from the still gushed out to
the creek and the road which followed it