be 'bleeged ter hev hearn me, fur arter I crost I stopped.
Nuthin'. Jes' a whisper o' wind, an' jes' a swishin' from the ruver.
I knowed then he hed turned off inter the laurel. An' I went on,
a-whistlin' ter make him 'low ez I never s'picioned nuthin'. An' I kem
inter the house an' tole dad ez he'd better be a-lookin' arter Eveliny,
fur I b'lieved she war a-settin' her head ter run away an' marry Abs'lom
Kittredge."

"Waal, I ain't right up an' down sati'fied we oughter done what we
done," exclaimed Stephen, fretfully. "It don't 'pear edzacly right fur
three men ter fire on one."

[Illustration: Old Joel Quimbey 081]

Old Joel Quimbey, in his arm-chair in the chimney-corner, suddenly
lifted his head--a thin head with fine white hair, short and sparse,
upon it. His thin, lined face was clear-cut, with a pointed chin and an
aquiline nose. He maintained an air of indignant and rebellious grief,
and had hitherto sat silent, a gnarled and knotted hand on either arm
of his chair. His eyes gleamed keenly from under his heavy brows as he
turned his face upon his sons. "How could we know thar warn't but one,
eh?"

He had not been a candidate for justice of the peace for nothing; he had
absorbed something of the methods and spirit of the law through sheer
propinquity to the office. "We-uns wouldn't be persumed ter _know_." And
he ungrudgingly gave himself all the benefit of the doubt that the law
accords.

"That's a true word!" exclaimed Stephen, quick to console his
conscience. "Jes' look at the fac's, now. We-uns in a plumb black
midnight hear a man a-gittin' over our fence; we git our rifles;
a-peekin' through the chinkin' we ketch a glimge o' him--"

"Ha!" cried out Timothy, with savage satisfaction, "we seen him by the
light she set her head him on!"

He was tall and lank, with a delicately hooked nose, high cheek-bones,
fierce dark eyes, and dark eyebrows, which were continually elevated,
corrugating his forehead. His hair was black, short and straight, and
he was clad in brown jeans, as were the others, with great cowhide boots
reaching to the knee. He fixed his fiery intent gaze on his brother as
the slower Stephen continued, "An' so we blaze away--"

"An' one durned fool's so onlucky ez ter hit him an' not kill him,"
growled Timothy, again interrupting. "An' so whilst Eveliny runs out
a-screamin', 'He's dead! he's dead!--ye hev shot him dead!' we-uns make
no doubt but he _is_ dead, an' load up agin, lest his