en he
went home at night he found cause for the thousand premonitions that had
haunted him. The lad was gone.

A faint light in the east was heralding the moon when Isom reached Steve
Marcum's gate. There were several horses hitched to the fence, several
dim forms seated in the porch, and the lad halloed for Steve, whose
shadow shot instantly from the door and came towards him.

"Glad ter see ye, Isom," he called, jubilantly. "I was jus' about to sen'
fer ye. How'd ye happen to come up?"

Isom answered in a low voice with the news of Crump's "blind," and Steve
laughed and swore in the same breath.

"Come hyeh!" he said, leading the way back; and at the porch he had Isom
tell the story again.

"Whut d' I tell ye, boys?" he asked, triumphantly. "Don't believe ye
more 'n half believed me."

Three more horsemen rode up to the gate and came into the light. Every
man was armed, and at Isom's puzzled look, Steve caught the lad by the
arm and led him around the chimney-corner. He was in high spirits.

"'Pears like ole times, Isom. I'm a-goin' fer thet cussed ole Steve
Brayton this very night. He's behind Crump. I s'picioned it afore; now
I know it for sartain. He's a-goin' to give Eli a mule 'n' a Winchester
fer killin' me. We're goin' to s'prise him to-night. He won't be
look-in' fer us--I've fixed that. I wus jus' about to sen' fer ye. I
hain't fergot how ye kin handle a gun." Steve laughed significantly.
"Ye're a good frien' o' mine, 'n' I'm goin' to show ye thet I'm a frien'
o' yourn."

Isom's paleness was unnoticed in the dark. The old throbbing began to
beat again at his temple; the old haze started from his eyes.

"Hyeh's yer gun, Isom," he heard Steve saying next. The fire was blazing
into his face. At the chimney-corner was the bent figure of old Daddy
Marcum, and across his lap shone a Winchester. Steve was pointing at it,
his grim face radiant; the old man's toothless mouth was grinning, and
his sharp black eyes were snapping up at him.

"Hit's yourn, I tell ye," said Steve again. "I aimed jes to lend it
to ye, but ye've saved me frum gittin' killed, mebbe, 'n' hit's yourn
now--yourn, boy, fer keeps."

Steve was holding the gun out to him now. The smooth cold touch of the
polished barrel thrilled him. It made everything for an instant clear
again, and feeling weak, Isom sat down on the bed, gripping the treasure
in both trembling hands. On one side of him some one was repeating
Steve's plan of attack. O