he pressed the handkerchief more
firmly to the wound, and waited.

Some distance along the road two men were hurriedly driving. The breeze
carried this sound to her quick ears and, gently lowering the
mountaineer's head, she went to the door. The whip-poor-wills abruptly
hushed, for they, too, had caught the sound; and amidst that strained
expectancy of woods life, which grows so tense as daylight fails, she
waited.

When the approaching buggy came out of the dusk she saw what she had
been expecting, Colonel May driving a powerful chestnut, and, with him,
Bob Hart; not so great in stature, but resembling the older man in grace
and manner as though he might in fact have been his son, instead of his
daughter's husband.

A groan from the room made her hesitate on the point of rushing out to
meet them, so she halloed between her hands while they alighted. A smile
of extreme relief crossed her face as they came up.

"Oh, I'm so glad you're here," she cried, with pretended lightness.

"And you, my dear," the Colonel panted in his eagerness to reach her,
"are more welcome still to us! What has happened that kept you?"

"Don't be alarmed," she answered, touched by the anxiety in his voice.
"There's a man hurt in here. He's been unconscious for an hour--but just
groaned!"

"Stabbed or shot?" Bob asked, pushing in and lighting the kerosene
ceiling lamp. Its flame rose stupidly, but soon cast a luminous circle
that framed the man, the bucket, the sodden handkerchief and splashes of
blood-stained water on the floor, in a tragic, still-life picture.

"Stabbed or shot?" the Colonel repeated after Bob.

"Neither," she murmured. "He fought Tusk Potter, but I'm sure it's no
worse than a blow on the head as he fell."

"My word! My word!" the old gentleman exploded. "I've always been
concerned about your permitting that half-witted outlaw to come here!
Where is he now?" He glared into the dark corners with the light of
battle in his eyes.

The unconscious man mumbled and stirred, moving as one asleep will
sometimes shift to a more comfortable position. Bob, already by him on
the floor, looked up, saying:

"He's coming about all right. What shall we do, Colonel?"

"Leave him down the road," the Colonel snapped. "Tom Hewlet's house'll
be good enough, and I'll pay the rascal's niece to nurse him, if he
requires it. Why did they fight?" He turned abruptly to Jane.

"He--he resented something Tusk said."

"Something Tusk sai