NE

"Eejit! My son John! Whip ary man in Jackson County! Whoop! Come along!
Who'll fight old Eph Adamson?"

The populace of Spring Valley, largely assembled in the shade of the
awnings which served as shelter against an ardent June sun, remained
cold to the foregoing challenge. It had been repeated more than once by
a stout, middle-aged man in shirt sleeves and a bent straw hat, who
still turned a truculent gaze this side and that, taking in the
straggling buildings which lined the public square--a quadrangle which
had for its center the brick courthouse, surrounded by a plat of
scorched and faded greensward. At his side walked a taller though
younger man, grinning amiably.

The audience remained indifferent, although the challenger now shifted
his position to the next path leading out to a street entrance; and
repeated this until he had quite traversed the square. Only, at the
farther corner back of him, a woman paused as she entered the courthouse
inclosure--paused and turned back as she caught sight of the challenger
and heard his raucous summons, although evidently she had been hurrying
upon some errand.

Ephraim Adamson walked hither and thither, his muscular arms now bared
to the elbows; and at his side stalked his stalwart son, who now and
then beat his fists together, and cracked his knuckles with a vehemence
like that of pistol shots. But none paid great attention to either of
the Adamsons. Indeed, the eyes of most now were following the comely
figure of this woman, as usually was the case when she appeared.

"Take her now, right how she is," said one of the sidewalk philosophers,
"and you got to admit yonder's the handsomest woman in this town, and
has been for twenty years." He nodded to where she stood, hesitating.

That she was a tallish woman, of less than middle age and of good
figure, was perceptible even at some distance as she finally advanced.
She was well clad enough, and with a certain grace and trimness in her
appointings--indeed seemed smart in a quiet and unobtrusive way--very
neat as to hands and feet, and trim as to the small turban which served
now as her only defense against the heat of the summer sun.

"'Rory Lane," said one languid citizen to another, as they sat on
comfortable boxes in front of the leading grocery store. "Wonder where
_she's_ goin', this time of day? Anyhow, she runs into Old Man Adamson
on his regular weekly spree. He wants to fight, as usual, him and his
half-w