ched the tiny leather bag that hung
from a cord about her neck inside the gown. Within it was the fairy
crystal. The touch of it strengthened her in some subtle fashion. It
was as if to her weakness there came miraculously something vital,
something occultly helpful in her need, from the distant lover. The
superstition, begotten and nourished always in the fastnesses of the
heights, stirred deeply within her, and comforted her. Of a sudden,
courage flowed back into her. She took down the receiver.

After all, nothing was accomplished. The marshal was not in his
office, but absent somewhere in the mountains. Plutina would not risk
giving information to any other than the officer himself, whom she
knew, and respected. Disconsolate, she abandoned the attempt for the
time being, and set out to get a bag of wheat flour from the mill
close by, on the other side of Roaring River.

As Plutina, with the bag of flour on shoulder, was making her way back
from the mill, across the big sycamore trunk that serves as a foot
bridge, a horse splashed into the ford alongside. The girl looked up,
to see the very man she sought. Marshal Stone called a cheery
greeting, the while his horse dropped its head to drink.

"Howdy, Plutina?"

"Howdy, Mr. Stone," she answered. Her free hand went again to the
talisman in her bosom. Surely, its charm was potent!

"All's well as common, at home?" Stone continued. His critical eyes
delighted in the unconscious grace of the girl, as she stood poised
above the brawling stream, serene in her physical perfection; and
above the delicately modeled symmetry of form was the loveliness of
the face, beautiful as a flower, yet strong, with the shining eyes and
the red lips, now parted in eagerness. The marshal wondered a little
at that eagerness. He wondered still more at her hurried speech after
one quick glance to make sure that none could overhear:

"I mustn't be seed talkin' to ye, but I got somethin' to say 'll he'p
ye arn yer pay. Kin ye meet me in an hour by the sun, at the ole gate
on the east end o' Wolf Rock?"

The marshal's answer wasted no words:

"Go on, gal--I'll be there."

Wolf Rock, a huge, jutting mass of barren cliff, though tiny beside
the bulk of Stone Mountain, which overshadows it, lies between Garden
Creek and Thunder Branch, a little to the north of where these streams
flow into Roaring River. Its situation, nearly midway between the mill
and the Siddon Cabin, made it a convenie