them, demanding their business.

"You're our business," shouted back young Byram. "Git up an' dust out o'
Foxville, you dirty loafer!"

"Better stay where you are," said McCloud, grimly.

Then old Tansey bawled: "Yew low cuss, git outer this here taown! Yew
air meaner 'n pussley an' meaner 'n quack-root, an' we air bound tew run
yew into them mountings, b' gosh!"

There was a silence, then the same voice: "Be yew calculatin' tew mosey,
Dan McCloud?"

"You had better stay where you are," said McCloud; "I'm armed."

"Ye be?" replied a new voice; "then come aout o' that or we'll snake ye
aout!"

Byram began moving towards the house, shot-gun raised.

"Stop!" cried McCloud, jumping to his feet.

But Byram came on, gun levelled, and McCloud retreated to his front
door.

"Give it to him!" shouted the game-warden; "shoot his windows out!"
There was a flash from the road and a load of buckshot crashed through
the window overhead.

Before the echoes of the report died away, McCloud's voice was heard
again, calmly warning them back.

Something in his voice arrested the general advance.

"I don't know why I don't kill you in your tracks, Byram," said McCloud;
"I've wanted the excuse often enough. But now I've got it and I don't
want it, somehow. Let me alone, I tell you."

"He's no good!" said the warden, distinctly. Byram crept through the
picket fence and lay close, hugging his shot-gun.

"I tell you I intend to pay my taxes," cried McCloud, desperately.
"Don't force me to shoot!"

The sullen rage was rising; he strove to crush it back, to think of the
little path-master.

"For God's sake, go back!" he pleaded, hoarsely.

Suddenly Byram started running towards the house, and McCloud clapped
his rifle to his cheek and fired. Four flashes from the road answered
his shot, but Byram was down in the grass screaming, and McCloud had
vanished into his house.

Charge after charge of buckshot tore through the flimsy clapboards; the
moonlight was brightened by pale flashes, and the timbered hills echoed
the cracking shots.

After a while no more shots were fired, and presently a voice broke out
in the stillness:

"Be yew layin' low, or be yew dead, Dan McCloud?"

There was no answer.

"Or be yew playin' foxy possum," continued the voice, with nasal rising
inflection.

Byram began to groan and crawl towards the road.

"Let him alone," he moaned; "let him alone. He's got grit, if he hain't
got nothin' else