Rufe Stetson stood before
the blaze, his hands clasped behind him, and his huge figure bent in
reflection. At intervals he would look with half-shut eyes at Rome, who
Sat with troubled face outside the firelight. Across the knees of Steve
Marcum, the best marksman in the mountains, lay the barrel of a new
Winchester. Old Sam Day, Rufe's father-in-law and counsellor to the
Stetsons for a score of years, sat as if asleep on the opposite side of
the fireplace from the old mother, with his big square head pressed down
between his misshapen shoulders.

"The time hev come, Rome." Rufe spoke between the puffs of his pipe, and
Rome's heart quickened, for every eye was upon him. "Thar's goin' to
be trouble now. I hear as how young Jasper hev been talkin' purty tall
about ye--'lowin' as how ye air afeard O' him."

Rome felt his mother's burning look. He did not turn toward her nor
Rufe, but his face grew sullen, and his voice was low and harsh.
"I reckon he'll find out about that when the time comes," he said,
quietly-too quietly, for the old mother stirred uneasily, and
significant glances went from eye to eye. Rufe did not look up from the
floor. He had been told about Rome's peculiar conduct, and, while the
reason for it was beyond guessing, he knew the temper of the boy and
how to kindle it. He had thrust a thorn in a tender spot, and he let it
rankle. How sorely it did rankle he little knew. The voice of the woman
across the river was still in Rome's ears. Nothing cuts the mountaineer
to the quick like the name of coward. It stung him like the lash of
an ox-whip then; it smarted all the way across the river and up the
mountain. Young Jasper had been charging him broadcast with cowardice,
and Jasper's people no doubt believed it. Perhaps his own did--his
uncle, his mother. The bare chance of such a humiliation set up an
inward rage. He wondered how he could ever have been such a fool as to
think of peace. The woman's gossip had swept kindly impulses from his
heart with a fresh tide of bitterness, and, helpless now against its
current, he sullenly gave way, and let his passions loose to drift with
it.

"Whar d' ye git the guns, Rufe?" Steve was testing the action of the
Winchester with a kindling look, as the click of the locks struck softly
through the silence.

"Jackson; 'way up in Breathitt, at the eend of the new road."

"No wonder y'u've been gone so long."

"I had to wait thar fer the guns, 'n' I had to travel att