fully, "you were about to commit murder."

"I _might_ have killed one of those fellows, but I cannot see that it
would have been murder in a real sense; we are enemies, and this has
been a small war."

"But you were about to take the life of someone in a manner that I would
not call bravery. You were not in front of the battle as an open enemy.
The fellow you would have killed knew nothing of your presence here, and
that would have been cold-blooded murder."

"What is the difference in this country, where all is murder?"

Wade was evidently trying to relieve his conscience.

"The difference is not with the other fellow, but with you. I am glad,
however, that you did not kill him."

"I am also glad of that, Nora, thanks to you." They were now walking
toward the cabin. "Was anyone inside hurt?" asked Wade. "I heard someone
cry painfully."

"That was Dad's ruse to draw them to a closer range, but it was the
accidental discharge of your rifle that put a stop to the fight."

Peter Judson was cautiously peering about, when he espied Wade and Nora.

"Hi, thar!" he said. "Be ye enemies or friends?"

"Friends," replied Wade.

"Ye jest missed some fun, shore. Reckon we give them fellers 'bout as
good a scare as ever they had, don't you think?"

"From the way they retreated," said Wade, "I believe they were
frightened; but we must be very careful, Judson,--one horse went up the
hill riderless."

Old man Peter scratched his head. "The dickens ye say. Reckon what that
means, Wade?"

"That someone is lurking around in the dark to pick us off when we least
expect it."

"Wade, ye don't know these fellers yet, long's ye've been here.
Somebody's lyin' out yonder dead, as shore as you live. Tom, git the
lantern an' come on; let's take a look."

Followed by Tom and Wade, Peter went out the gate toward the spot where
the enemy were located while the fighting was going on. Old Peter, that
old time scout of the mountains, stopped and stood in a listening
attitude. Now he heard the faint groan from someone to the left of them;
his trained ear carried him to the fallen man.

"Hi, thar, friend!" he called out; "whar air ye?"

"I'm dyin'," came back the groaning reply, "I'm dyin', shore; this
time."

Peter went on and bent over the fallen form. Throwing the glare of his
lantern in the face of the man, he gasped, "My God! it's Al Thompson."

"Yes, it's Al, old man; ye got me this time." Thompson was speaking
laboriously,