no
coward, a coward would never have undertaken the heavy task which he
had, but he also was not fond of fighting. Had he lived in the mountains
all his life he would have enjoyed the sport, but he had not, there was
not so much sport in it for him as there was for old Peter Judson, who
knew nothing else.

The trouble between the Judson and Thompson factions could be dated back
to the early days, when one Alex Judson, a very young man, shot to death
one Bill Allen, a kinsman of the Thompsons, on the streets of the little
village. Alex Judson flew to the mountains, and there arose two factions
out of the killing. From time to time a Thompson or a Judson was picked
off his saddle as he rode over the mountain in the dead of night, but
after the death of Alex Judson the trouble had been patched up, and for
years had lain still, but only sleeping, not dead. The history began
before the present generation came into being, and old Peter's act in
clipping Al Thompson's trigger finger off had opened the wound anew, the
old sore bled, and the end of the trouble was not yet.

All this and more Peter told Wade as they rode on toward home, finally
pulling up at Wade's cabin.

"An' now, Wade," said Peter, "ye air a Judson, an' ye can't expect
anything but death. Somebody's a-goin' ter git killed afore this thing
is over. Hit may be me, hit may be you, hit may be Jim Thompson or his
son Al, an' hit may be Tom. Nobody knows who it will be till he's done
fer."

"I shall be satisfied," replied Wade.

Jack watched the old man out of sorrowful eyes as he rode up the hill
leading Tom's horse behind him.

"The old fellow has had much trouble," he thought, "but he seems to
enjoy the sport of a feudal fight." Wade attended to his own stock and
then lay down for a few hours of rest. The strenuous night had been too
much for his nerves, but there was much other trouble before him of
which he little dreamed as he lay across his bed to rest. He was not
long in falling fast asleep, and it was near noon by the sun when he was
awakened by the low whine of Rover standing at the door. Wade rose and
shook himself much after the fashion of a dog coming out of the water.
His head felt heavy, his brain dull. The events of the night before were
trying to fix themselves in his memory, but he could not shape them. He
had faint recollection of all he had gone through from the time of
hearing the dog-horn, the two successive rifle shots, his hasty rush