chance companion for
only a moment before he shiftily looked away and, for no visible reason,
flushed.

"He's a mighty good man--albeit a hard one," he made answer, "but some
folk 'lows he's old-fashioned in his notions."

"Who 'lows thet, Pete--ther riders?"

Young Doane started violently, then recovered himself and laughed away
his confusion.

"How'd I know what ther riders says?" he demanded. "We don't traffick
with 'em none at our house."

But Parish Thornton continued to bore with his questioning eyes into the
other face until Pete fidgeted. He drew a pipe from one pocket and
tobacco crumbs from another, but the silent and inquisitorial scrutiny
disconcerted him and he could feel a hot and tell-tale flush spreading
on his face and neck.

Abruptly Parish Thornton admonished him in the quiet tone of
decisiveness.

"Quit hit, Pete! Leave them riders alone an' don't mix up with 'em no
more."

"I don't know what ye're talkin' erbout," disclaimed young Doane with
peppery heat. "I hain't got no more ter do with them fellers then what
ye hev yoreself. What license hev ye got ter make slurs like them
erginst me, anyhow?"

"I didn't hev nothin' much ter go on, Pete," responded Thornton, mindful
of his promise of secrecy to the unfortunate Jerry Black, "but ther way
ye flushed up jest now an' twisted 'round when I named hit put ye in a
kinderly bad light. Them men air right apt ter mislead young fellers
thet hain't none too thoughted--an' hit's my business ter look inter
affairs like thet. I'd hate ter hev yore pappy suspicion what _I_
suspicions erbout ye."

"Honest ter God," protested the boy, now thoroughly frightened, "I
hain't nuver consorted with 'em none. I don't know nothin' erbout
'em--no more'n what idle tattle I heers goin' round in common talk."

"I hain't askin' ye whether ye've rid with 'em heretofore or not, Pete,"
the other man significantly reminded him. "I'm only askin' ye ter give
me yore hand ye won't nuver do hit ergin. We're goin' ter bust up thet
crowd an' penitenshery them thet leads 'em. I hate ter hev ye mixed up,
when thet comes ter pass. Will ye give me yore hand?"

Readily the young member of the secret brotherhood pledged himself, and
Parish, ignorant of how deeply he had become involved in the service of
Bas Rowlett, thought of him only as young and easily led, and hoped that
an ugly complication had been averted.

When Joe Bratton, the Kentucky sheriff, came to the house in t