led the
games less frowned upon by the strait-laced. But while the thoughtless
rollicked, their elders gathered in small clumps here and there and
talked in grave undertones, and through these groups old Caleb
circulated. He knew how mysterious and possibly significant to these
news-hungry folk had seemed the strange circumstance of the
bridegroom's answering, in the marriage service, to a name he had not
previously worn and he sought to draw, by his own strong influence, the
sting of suspicion from their questioning minds.

But Bas Rowlett did not remain through the day, and when he was ready to
leave, old Caleb followed him around the turn of the road to a point
where they could be alone, and laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

"Bas," he said, feelingly, "I'd hate ter hev ye think I hain't a-feelin'
fer ye terday. I knows right well ye're sore-hearted, boy, an' thar
hain't many men thet could hev took a bitter dose like ye've done."

Rowlett looked gloomily away.

"I hain't complainin' none, Caleb," he said.

"No. But I hain't got master long ter live--an' when Jim an' me both
passes on, I fears me thar'll be stressful times ahead. I wants ye ter
give me yore hand thet ye'll go on standin' by my leetle gal an' her
fam'ly, Bas. Else I kain't die satisfied."

Bas Rowlett stood rigidly and tensely straight, his eyes fixed to the
front, his forehead drawn into furrows. Then he thrust out his hand.

"Ye've done confidenced me until now," he said simply, "ye kin go on
doin' hit. I gives ye my pledge."

CHAPTER XIV

Among the men who danced at that party were Sim Squires and Pete Doane,
but when they saddled and mounted at sunset, they rode divergent ways.

Each of the two was acting under orders that day, and each was spreading
an infection whose virus sought to stir into rebirth the war which the
truce had so long held in merciful abeyance.

Aaron Capper, who was as narrow yet as religious as an Inquisition
priest, had always believed the Thorntons to be God's chosen and the
Doanes to be children of Satan. The bonds of enforced peace had galled
him heavily. Three sons had been killed in the battle at Claytown and he
felt that any truce made before he had evened his score left him wronged
and abandoned by his kinsmen.

Now Sim Squires, mounted on a swift pacing mare, fell in beside Aaron,
his knee rubbing the knee of the grizzled wayfarer, and Sim said
impressively:

"Hit looks right bodaciousl