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"An' now afore ye all," Maggard glanced comprehensively about the group, "albeit hit don't need no more attestin', he's goin' ter prove his friendship fer me afresh." A pause followed, broken finally from the bed.
"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.
On the fringe of the gathering an old woman's whispered words carried to those about her: "Did ye heer thet? Jase called him Parish Thornton I thought he give ther name of Cal Maggard!" Even Bas Rowlett, whose nerves were keyed for an ordeal, started and almost let the leaning bridegroom fall.
If Cal Maggard had been kneeling with his neck on the guillotine block the intense burden of his suspense could hardly have been greater. So long as Caleb Harper sat there, with his benign old face open-eyed in wakefulness, death would stand grudgingly aloof, staring at the wounded man yet held in leash.
Yet before he reached the stile Doane halted and stood irresolute with his gaze groundward and his chin on his breast, then summoning his fellows with a jerk of the thumb, he turned back to the spot where Cal Maggard had remained unmoving at the base of the great tree, and his face though still solemn was no longer wrathful. "Sometimes, Mr.
"Jist like a couple of blood-brothers," assented Maggard with an ironic flash in his eyes, "an' now Blood-brother Bas, go over thar an' set down." Rowlett ground his teeth, but he laughed sardonically and walked in leisurely fashion to the hearth. There he sat with his feet outspread to the blaze, while he sought solace from his pipe and failed to find it.
"He give ther name of Cal Maggard," answered the old man, casually, as he crumbled leaf tobacco into his pipe. "He lows he's going ter dwell in ther old Burrell Thornton house over on ther nigh spur of Defeated Creek."
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.
Probably that hate-blackness on the other face was for the would-be assassin and not for himself, argued Maggard. Rowlett went over and stood by the hearth, staring into the fire, his hands clenching and unclenching in spasmodic violence. This was a queer dream, mused Maggard, and more and more insistently it refused to seem a dream.
"I hain't got no license ter dissuade ye, ner ter fault ye," he declared, "but I hopes ter Goddlemighty she hain't got no time of day fer ye." That afternoon Maggard sat before the doorstep of Old Caleb Harper's house when the setting sun was splashing from a gorgeous palette above the ragged crests of the ridges.
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