and had driven Rome from the mountains; who had
threatened old Gabe's life, and had shot Steve Marcum almost to death!
The lad drew breath quickly, and standing in his stirrups, stretched out
his fist, and let it drop, slowly.

II.

OLD Gabe was just starting out when Isom' reached the cabin, and the old
man thought the boy had been at the mill all night. Isom slept through
the day, and spoke hardly a word when the miller came home, though the
latter had much to say of Raines, the two Steves, and of the trouble
possible. He gave some excuse for not going with old Gabe the next day,
and instead went into the woods alone.

Late in the middle of the afternoon he reached the mill. Old Gabe sat
smoking outside the door, and Isom stretched himself out on the platform
close to the water, shading his eyes from the rich sunlight with one
ragged sleeve.

"Uncl' Gabe," he said, suddenly, "s'posin' Steve Brayton was to step
out'n the bushes thar some mawnin' 'n' pull down his Winchester on ye,
would ye say, 'Lawd, fergive him, fer he don't know whut he do'?"

Old Gabe had told him once about a Stetson and a Lewallen who were heard
half a mile away praying while they fought each other to death with
Winchesters. "There was no use prayin' an' shootin'," the miller
declared. There was but one way for them to escape damnation; that was
to throw down their guns and make friends. But the miller had forgotten,
and his mood that morning was whimsical.

"Well, I mought, Isom," he said, "ef I didn't happen to have a gun
handy."

The humor was lost on Isom. His chin was moving up and down, and his
face was serious. That was just it. He could forgive Jass--Jass was dead;
he could forgive Crump, if he caught him in no devilment; old Brayton
even--after Steve's revenge was done. But now--The boy rose, shaking his
head.

"Uncl' Gabe," he said with sudden passion, "whut ye reckon Rome's
a-doin'?"

The miller looked a little petulant. "Don't ye git tired axin' me thet
question, Isom? Rome's a-scratchin' right peert fer a livin', I reckon,
fer hisself 'n' Marthy. Yes, 'n' mebbe fer a young 'un too by this time.
Ef ye air honin' fer Rome, why don't ye rack out 'n' go to him? Lawd
knows I'd hate ter see ye go, but I tol' Rome I'd let ye whenever ye got
ready, 'n' so I will."

Isom had no answer, and old Gabe was puzzled. It was always this way.
The boy longed for Rome, the miller could see. He spoke of him sometimes
with tears, and