from elsewhere they
would unite as allies. Such a prize would be fought for, murdered for if
need be--but one ray of encouragement played among the clouds. Any lover
who felt confidence in his own success would not have found such tactics
needful--and if she herself were not committed, she was not yet won by
any rival. In that conclusion lay solace.

The next morning found Maggard busied about his dooryard, albeit with
his rifle standing ready to hand, and to-day he wore his shirt with the
arm-pit pistol holster under its cover.

His vigilance, too, was quietly alert, and when a mule came in sight
along the trail which looped over the ridge a half mile distant and was
promptly swallowed again by the woods, his ears followed its approach by
little sounds that would have been silent to a less sensitively trained
hearing.

It was a smallish, mouse-coloured mule that emerged at length to view
and it looked even smaller than it was because the man who straddled it
dwarfed it with his own ponderous stature and a girth which was almost
an anomaly in a country of raw-boned gauntness.

The big man slid down, and his thick neck and round face were red and
sweat-damp though the day was young and cool.

"I made a soon start this mornin'," he enlightened: "ter git me some
gryste ground, an' I didn't eat me no vittles save only a few peanuts.
I'm sich a fool 'bout them things thet most folks round hyar calls me by
ther name of 'Peanuts.'"

"I reckon I kin convenience ye with some sort of snack," Maggard assured
him. "Ef so be ye're hungry--an' kin enjoy what I've got."

Fed and refreshed, "Peanuts" Causey started on again and before he had
been long gone Bas Rowlett appeared and sent his long halloo ahead of
him in announcement of his coming.

"I jist lowed I'd ride over an' see could I tender ye any neighbourly
act," he began affably and Maggard laughed.

"Thet thar's right clever of ye," he declared. "Fer one thing, ye kin
tell me who air ther big, jobial-seeming body thet gives ther name of
Peanuts Causey. I reckon ye knows him?"

Rowlett grunted. "He's a kind of loaferer thet goes broguein' 'round
scatterin' peanut hulls an' brash talk everywhich way an' yon," he gave
enlightenment. "Folks don't esteem him no turrible plenty. Hit's all
right fer hawgs ter fatten but hit don't become a man none. Myself I
disgusts gutty fellers."

Cal Maggard had drawn out his pipe and was slowly filling it. As though
the thought were