eft arm, his brow was threatening, his mouth was firmly set an instant
after he had spoken.

Holton, recovering himself quickly, spoke calmly, propitiatingly. "My
name's Holton. I want to see th' gal as lives up yander. Want to buy her
land of her."

Lorey, satisfied by this explanation that the stranger was not a
government agent, as he had, at first suspected, relaxed his tense
rigidity of muscles. From fear of revenuers his disturbed mind returned
quickly to the bitterness of his resentment of what he thought Madge
Brierly's infatuation for the young lowlander.

"It's too late," he said. "Thar's only one man as she'd let down that
bridge for, now--th' man I thought ye might be--Frank Layson."

Holton, quick to see the possibility of gaining an advantage, realizing
from the young man's tone that he was certainly no friend of Layson's,
guessing, with quick cunning, at what the situation was, decided that
the thing for him to do was to reveal the fact that, in his heart, he,
also, hated Layson.

"So ye took me for a revenuer or Frank Layson, eh?" said he. "I know
what th' mountings think o' revenuers, an' I reckon, from yer handlin'
o' that rifle, that you're no friend o' Layson's."

Joe, full of the fierce bitterness of his resentment, was ready to
confide in anyone his hatred of the "furriner" who had come up and won
the girl he loved. He let the barrel of his rifle slip between his
fingers till its stock was resting on the ground.

"I hates him as I hates but one man in th' world!" he said, with bitter
emphasis.

"Who's that?" said Holton, thoughtlessly, although, an instant
afterward, he was sorry that he had pursued the subject.

"Lem Lindsay," Lorey answered; "him as killed my father. Frank Layson's
come between me an' Madge Brierly, an' he's got to cl'ar my tracks!" His
voice thrilled with the intensity of his emotion, and, suddenly, he
caught his rifle up, again, into his crooked elbow, where it rested
ready for quick usage. "If you plans to warn him--" he began.

"Warn him!" said the older man, with a bitterness, real or
counterfeited, whichever it might be, as fierce as that which rang in
the young moonshiner's own voice, "I hate him as much as you. I'd rather
warn you."

"Warn me o' what?" Lorey had begun to lose suspicion of the stranger.
If, really, he hated Layson, he might make of him a useful ally.

"Your name's Lorey," Holton answered, with his keen eyes fixed intently
on those of the man