The face of the intriguer remained steadfast save that the unblinking
eyes became a little pained. He fumbled in his breast pocket, and from
among the few dirty envelopes that came out sheafed in his hands,
selected a crumpled page of letter paper.

"Thet's whut I went on," he said simply. "I've done lost ther envellup
hit come in, but thar hit is in Saul's own hand-write."

Boone took the missive which bore a South American date line and, after
reading it, handed it without comment to Asa.

"Dear Tom," it ran. "I swore to a volume of lies at Asa
Gregory's trial to save my own neck. It's been haunting me
until I've got to come back and help to get him a pardon. I'm
indicted myself, and I've got to come in secret or go to jail
without getting results. I'm coming to your house, and until
the time is ripe it mustn't be known that I'm there. You don't
love Asa, but we're all mountain men together, and that trial
was a trial of the mountains. Resp. Saul Fulton."

Saul had ridden away the night before in the haste of a man whose life
is forfeit to delay, yet before he mounted he had penned that letter at
Tom Carr's dictation, and the ink of the South American date line was
scarce twelve hours dry.

"I'll send it back to you, Tom," he had demurred. "There isn't time now.
They may come any minute to get me!"

"If ye don't write hit--an' thet speedily--they'll find a ready-made
corpse when they gits hyar," had been Tom's succinct reply with an
eloquent gesture toward his armpit holster. "Ye got me inter this
fix--now ye've got ter alibi me outen hit."

Without waste of words, the posse turned and left the house. They were
starting on a pursuit which they knew would end in nothing, but Tom,
following them to the gate, called out cheerfully: "I hope ye gits him,
boys. He left my house without no farewell betwixt sundown an'
sun-up--an' he took ther best nag outen my stable ter go with."

* * * * *

One who would sound the depths of ingenious depravity should lend ear to
the tale of the householder whose life has been ravished of tranquillity
by that small boy of the neighbourhood who leads and incites the local
gang of youthful hooligans.

To such a tale the judge of the Louisville Juvenile Court was listening
now, and the defendant, who sat sullen eyed in the essential wickedness
of his eleven years, heard witness after witness unfold his record