recognized and
overthrown. So far the rock-built ridges of Cedar Mountain had been a
reef, protecting his own locality--but the advent of Jerry Henderson
had bespoken the imminence of a mounting tide--and whispered the
warning of deluge.

The elimination of Jerry had seemed imperative, but the result promised
disaster--since the wounding of Bear Cat had threatened the
wrath-glutting of the Stacys.

There was only one method of discounting that danger. Bear Cat had come
single-handed to his stronghold--he must now go single-handed, or
escorted only by his customary body-guard, into the heart of Stacy
territory, disavowing responsibility for the attack. He must, by that
convincingly reckless device, appear to demonstrate that he trusted
himself among them and expected in turn to be trusted by them.

He hoped with a fair degree of confidence that Jerry Henderson had not
reached the minister's alive--or that at all events he had not been
able to talk with a revealing fluency.

So the guileful old wolf had set out to ride boldly through an aroused
and hostile country, facing a score of parlous contingencies.

As he rode, he heard the rallying cry and its full portent in no wise
escaped his just appraisal. It caused him to spur on faster, however,
for the ugliness of the situation made it the more imperative that he
should reach Lone Stacy's house in time to present himself as an ally
before he was sought out as an enemy.

But when he had sent his message ahead by a neutral bearer, Kinnard
Towers slowed down and watched the stream of horsemen that flowed past
him: all men with scowling eyes responding to the cry which meant war:
all men who passed without attack, only because, as yet, the summons
had not been explained.

"By ther godlings!" muttered the Towers chieftain, with a bitter humor,
"I didn't know thar was sich a passel o' Stacys in ther world. They'll
stand a heap of thinnin' out!"

"An' as shore es hell's hot," growled Black Tom Carmichael with a dark
pessimism brooding in his eyes, "they'll _do_ right-smart thinnin' out
their own selves--once they gits stirred up."

* * * * *

By the time the sun had fully dissipated the early mists, the door yard
of Lone Stacy's house was dotted with little groups of men, and from
the wide doors of the barn more faces looked expectantly out. Along the
sandy creek-bed of the road, where a flock of geese waddled and hissed,
oth