tener born of fear. Both motives powerfully
agitated the people of the region round about Clifty as night drew on
after Ralph's acquittal. They were justly indignant that Ralph had been
made the victim of such a conspiracy, and they were frightened at the
unseen danger to the community from such a band as that of Small's. It
was certain that they did not know the full extent of the danger as yet.
And what Small might do with a jury, or what Pete Jones might do with a
sheriff, was a question. I must not detain the reader to tell how the
mob rose. Nobody knows how such things come about. Their origin is as
inexplicable as that of an earthquake. But, at any rate, a rope was
twice put round Small's neck during that night, and both times Small
was saved only by the nerve and address of Ralph, who had learned how
unjust mob law may be. As for Small, he neither trembled when they were
ready to hang him, nor looked relieved when he was saved, nor showed the
slightest flush of penitence or gratitude. He bore himself in a quiet,
gentlemanly way throughout, like the admirable villain that he was.

He waived a preliminary examination the next day; his father went his
bail, and he forfeited bail and disappeared from the county and from the
horizon of my story. Two reports concerning Small have been in
circulation--one that he was running a faro-bank in San Francisco, the
other that he was curing consumption in New York by some quack process.
If this latter were true, it would leave it an open question whether
Ralph did well to save him from the gallows. Pete Jones and Bill, as
usually happens to the rougher villains, went to prison, and when their
terms had expired moved to Pike County, Missouri.

But it is about Hannah that you wish to hear, and that I wish to tell.
She went straight from the court room to Flat Creek, climbed to her
chamber, packed in a handkerchief all her earthly goods, consisting
chiefly of a few family relics, and turned her back on the house of
Means forever. At the gate she met the old woman, who shook her fist in
the girl's face and gave her a parting benediction in the words: "You
mis'able, ongrateful critter you, go 'long. I'm glad to be shed of you!"
At the barn she met Bud, and he told her good-by with a little huskiness
in his voice, while a tear glistened in her eyes. Bud had been a friend
in need, and such a friend one does not leave without a pang.

"Where are you going? Can I--"

"No, no!" And wi