's ez I never done!" he lifted his eyes as if
appealing to heaven.

"The killin' 's the wust; an' Mr. Sneed's critter bein' gone too
mought make folks lay it ter ye fur sure," persisted Hite.

"I ain't seen Mr. Sneed's horse. Mr. Sneed--ye wouldn't b'lieve it ter
look at him, but he's a ransomed saint! ha! ha! The money fur him
will be fotched hyar ter yer still. I sent fur it ter kem by Jake
Glenn; he knows ye, an' ye know him."

Con Hite's open brow did not cloud. If there were any significance
perceptible in the fact that Mr. Persimmon Sneed, with so fine a head
for locality, should be able to identify only the still among his
various shelters during his "visit" to Nick Peters, Con Hite made no
sign.

"Lord, how glad I'll be ter git rid o' him!" Peters said in an
undertone to Hite. "He hev mighty nigh argufied me ter death,--'bout
sperits, an' witches, an' salvation, an' law, an' craps, an'
horse-flesh, an' weather signs. I be sorter 'feard his wife won't pay
nuthin' ter git him again. He 'pears sorter under the weather now, or
eavesdroppin' or suthin'. The money 'll pay me mighty pore fur my
trouble. Thar--what's that?"

He paused to listen; there was a sound other than the tinkling of the
little rill near at hand or the blare of the autumn wind. A stone came
rolling down the path, dislodged by a cautious step,--then another.
Hite drew a revolver from his pocket, and, holding it in his right
hand, stepped out on the rugged little parapet and stood there, with
the depths of the gorge below him, looking up the ascent with the
moonlight in his face. He spoke in a low voice to some one
approaching, and was answered in the same tone. He stepped back to
give the new-comer space to enter, and as Jake Glenn came in held out
his hand for the package the messenger bore.

"Let's see it, Nick," he said, tearing it open; "it's the money sure
enough."

Old Persimmon Sneed turned his head with a certain alert interest.
Perhaps he himself had doubted whether his wife would think him worth
the money. There was a general flutter of good-natured gratulation,
and it seemed at the moment only some preposterous mistake that Con
Hite should put it into Persimmon Sneed's lean paw and close his
trembling fingers over it.

"Now, scoot!" he bawled out at the top of his voice, the little den
ringing with the echoes of his excitement, a second revolver drawn in
his left hand. "I'll gin ye a day's start o' these fellers." He
presente