ter an hour spent in walking the
wrong way, that its possessor met the next person to whom he could put
questions. Then he learned that "Lone Stacy dwelt in a sizeable house
over on Little Slippery,"--but that he had strayed so far from the true
course that now he must climb a mountain or take a detour and that in
either event he would have to hasten to arrive there before nightfall.

So the shadows were lengthening when he turned into the course of what
must be "Little Slippery"--and came face to face with two men of
generous stature, one elderly and the other youthful. He noted that the
older of these men carried a rifle on his shoulder and was conscious of
a piercing scrutiny from both pairs of eyes.

"I'm seeking Lone Stacy," began Henderson, and the older face darkened
into a momentary scowl of animosity, with the coming of the curt reply:

"Thet's my name."

The traveler gave a violent start of astonishment. It was a
deep-chested voice which, once heard, was not to be confused with other
voices, and Jerry Henderson had heard it not many hours before raised
in stentorian warning from the depth of the thickets. But promptly he
recovered his poise and smiled.

"I have a piece of paper here," he said, "from Uncle Israel Calvert. He
said that if he vouched for me you would be satisfied."

As Lone Stacy accepted the proffered note with his left hand he passed
his rifle to the younger man with his right, and even then he held the
sheet unopened for a space while his serious gaze swept the stranger
slowly from head to foot in challenging appraisal.

He read slowly, with the knitted brows of the unscholastic, and as he
did so the youth kept his eye on Henderson's face--and his finger on
the trigger.

Having seen the boy's face, Henderson found it hard to shift his glance
elsewhere. He had encountered many mountain faces that were sinister
and vindictive--almost malign, but it was not the unyielding challenge
which arrested him now. It was something far more individual and
impressive. There are eyes that reflect light with the quicksilver
responsiveness of mirrors. There are others, though more rare, which
shine from an inner fire.

Bear Cat Stacy's held the golden, unresting flame that one encounters
in the tawny iris of a captive lion or eagle. Such eyes in a human face
mean something and it is something which leads their possessor to the
gallows or the throne. They are heralds of a spirit untameable and
invinc