y like es ef ther war's goin' ter bust loose
ergin, Aaron."

The other turned level eyes upon his informant and swept him up and down
with a searching gaze.

"Who give ye them tidin's, son? I hain't heered nothin' of hit, an' I
reckon ef ther Harpers war holdin' any council they wouldn't skeercely
pass me by."

"I don't reckon they would, Aaron." Sim now spoke with a flattery
intended to placate ruffled pride. "Ther boys thet's gittin' restive air
kinderly lookin' ter _you_ ter call thet council. Caleb Harper hain't
long fer this life--an' who's goin' ter take up his leadership--onless
hit be you?"

Aaron laughed, but there was a grim complaisance in the tone that argued
secret receptiveness for the idea.

"'Peared like hit war give out ter us terday thet this hyar young
stranger war denoted ter heir thet job."

"Cal Maggard!" Sim Squires spat out the name contemptuously and laughed
with a short hyena bark of derision. "Thet woods-colt from
God-knows-whar? Him thet goes hand in glove with Bas Rowlett an' leans
on his arm ter git married? Hell!"

Aaron took refuge in studied silence, but into his eyes had come a new
and dangerously smouldering darkness.

"I'll ponder hit," he made guarded answer--then added with humourless
sincerity, "I'll ponder--an' pray fer God's guidin'."

And as Sim talked with Aaron that afternoon, so he talked to others,
even less conservative of tendency, and Pete Doane carried a like gospel
of disquiet to those whose allegiance lay on the other side of the
feud's cleavage--yet both talked much alike. In houses remote and widely
scattered the security of the longstanding peace was being insidiously
undermined and shaken and guns were taken furtively out and oiled.

But in a deserted cabin where once two shadowy figures had met to
arrange the assassination of Cal Maggard three figures came separately
now on a night when the moon was dark, and having assured themselves
that they had not been seen gathering there, they indulged themselves in
the pallid light of a single lantern for their deliberations.

Bas Rowlett was the first to arrive, and he sat for a time alone smoking
his pipe, with a face impatiently scowling yet not altogether indicative
of despair.

Soon he heard and answered a triple rap on the barred door, and though
it seemed a designated signal he maintained the caution of a hand on his
revolver until a figure entered and he recognized the features of young
Peter Doane.