ing which must be launched to-night--but
first he meant to make a sad pilgrimage. He would not go in, but he
would stand outside Blossom's window--perhaps for the last time.
Something drew him there--a compelling force and he remained an hour.
When he turned away cold beads of nervous sweat stood on his temples.

Suddenly he saw two figures cross the road and plunge furtively into
the laurel, and they moved as men move who have a nefarious intent.
They were Dog Tate and Joe Sanders; the men to whom, last night, he had
fled for succor, and at once he divined their purpose.

Bear Cat, too, turned into the timber and, by hurrying over the broken
face of the slopes, intercepted their more cautious course. But when he
stood out in the path and confronted them, it was no longer into
friendly faces that he looked.

"Dog, I wants ter hev speech with ye," he said quietly, and the
moonshiner, who had instinctively thrust forward his rifle, stood with
a finger that trembled in impatience while it nursed the trigger.

"Don't hinder me, Bear Cat," he barked warningly, "I'm in dire
haste--an' I've got severe work ahead of me."

"I knows right well what thet work air, Dog." The young man spoke
calmly. "I reckon hit's a thing ye gave me yore pledge not many hours
back ye'd put by twell another day an' I hain't freed ye from thet
bond."

"Who air _you_ ter talk of pledges?" The friend of last night savagely
snarled his question with a scorn that shook his voice. "You thet this
day broke yore faith with yore blood ter line up with raiders an'
revenuers!"

Bear Cat's face whitened with an anger which he rigidly repressed.

"Ye succored me last night when I needed ye sore," came the steady
response, "an' I'm willin' ter look over these hardships of speech, but
a pledge given is a pledge thet's got ter stand till hit's done been
given back."

Tate's eyes were blazing with a dangerous passion and his rage made his
words come pantingly:

"Hit's too late fer preachin' texts, Bear Cat. We believed in ye
yestiddy. Ter-day we spits ye outen our mouths. Ye kain't call us ter
war one day an' send us back home, unsatisfied, ther next. My pappy's
kerchief's right hyar in my pocket now--an' ther blood thet's on hit
calls out ter me louder then yore fine palaverin's!"

Bear Cat Stacy's rifle had been swinging in his hand. He made no effort
to raise it.

"When ye calls me a traitor ter my blood, ye lies, Dog," he said with a
hard evennes