he called, then recognizing that this was a
leave-taking he added, "Cal, ef ye're startin' home, I'll go long with
ye, fer comp'ny."

The moon was westering when the two men reached the turn of the road and
there Rowlett paused and began speaking in a cautious undertone.

"I didn't come along accidental, Cal. I done hit a-purpose. I got ter
studyin' 'bout that cracklin' twig we heered in ther bresh an' hit
worrited me ter think of yore goin' home by yoreself. I concluded ter
tarry fer ye an' guide ye over a trace thet circles round thet gorge
without techin' hit."

"I'm right sensibly beholden ter ye," answered Maggard, the more
embarrassed because he now knew this generous fellow to be a vanquished
rival. "But 'atter ternight ye've got ter suffer me ter take my own
chances."

Together they climbed the mountainside until they reached the edge of a
thicket that seemed impassable but through which the guide discovered a
narrow way. Before they had come far they halted, breathing deep from
the steep ascent, and found themselves on a shelf of open rock that
commanded a view of the valley and the roof of the Harper house, on
which the moonlight slept.

[Illustration: "_'Hit almost seems like,' she whispered, 'that ther
old tree's got a spell in hit--ter bewitch folks with.'_"]

"Thar's ther last glimpse we gits ternight of ther house an' ther old
tree," said Rowlett who stood a few feet away and, as Maggard turned to
look, the night stillness broke into a bellowing that echoed against the
precipice and the newcomer lurched forward like an ox struck with a
sledge.

As he fell Maggard's hand gripped convulsively at his breast and at the
corners of his mouth a thin trickle of blood began to ooze.

But before his senses went under the closing tide of darkness and
insensibility the victim heard Rowlett's pistol barking ferociously back
into the timber from which the ambushed rifle had spoken. He heard
Rowlett's reckless and noisy haste as he plowed into the laurel where
he, too, might encounter death, and raising his voice in a feeble effort
of warning he tried to shout out: "Heed yoreself, Bas ... hit's too late
ter save me."

CHAPTER VIII

To the man lying in the soaked grass and moss of the sandstone ledge
came flashes of realization that were without definite beginning or end,
separated by gaps of insensibility. Out of his limbs all power and
volition seemed to have evaporated, and his breath was