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Old Jim Rowlett came to his feet, and drew his thin shoulders back shoulders that had been broad and strong enough to support heavy burdens through trying years. "Mr.
Now, too, he faced an adversary no longer fettered by any pledge of private forbearance. This, then, was the end and it arrived just a damnable shade too soon, when with the falling of dusk he might have witnessed the closing scenes of his enemy's doom. To-morrow there would be no Parish Thornton to dread, but also to-morrow there would be no Bas Rowlett to enjoy immunity from fear.
His henchmen offered no word or gesture of protest. They had seen the strength of the tidal wave which they had hoped to outface, and they realized the futility of any effort at armed resistance. It was when he had ridden home from the county seat after attending that session of the County Court, that Parish Thornton found Bas Rowlett smoking a pipe on his doorstep.
"He hain't got no proof," mused Turk, "an' feelin' runs right high ergin him. I'd mighty nigh confidence ther jury thet'll set in ther case ter convict." Bas Rowlett drew in and puffed out a cloud of smoke. His eyes were meditative. Here was a situation which called for delicate handling.
Parish Thornton had not been able to shoot at the initial instant because Dorothy stood in his way. After that it was useless and he saw Bas Rowlett step forward with a sudden change of expression on his pasty face. "Now, then," said Bas, exultantly, "hit's a gray hoss of another colour!"
Old Man Harper came over to the bed and Rowlett released his hold and moved away. "I've done been studyin' whether Dorothy's goin' ter make hit acrost ter Jase Burrell's or not," said Caleb, quaveringly. "I fears me ther storm hes done washed out the ford." Then he crossed to the hearth and sat down in a chair to light his pipe. Cal Maggard lay unmoving as the old man's chair creaked.
He dastn't walk in his own backyard withouten he kept thet log wall betwixt hisself an' ther mounting-side. So long as him an' old Mose Rowlett both lived thar warn't no peace feasible nohow. Cuss-fights an' shootin's an' laywayin's went on without no eend, twell finely hit come on ter be sich a hell-fired mommick thet ther two outfits met up an' fit a master battle in Claytown.
"Ye don't seem no master degree talkative terday, Bas," suggested the man with the pistol, which was no longer held levelled but swinging though ready to leap upward. Then almost musingly he added, "An' thet's a kinderly pity, too, seein' ye hain't nuver goin' ter hev no other chanst." "Why don't ye shoot an' git done?" barked Rowlett with a leer of desperation.
"Erginst all ther perils I knowed erbout yes," he answered, slowly, then his tone leaped into vehemence. "But I didn't suspicion until terday thet whilst I was away from ye ye hed ter protect yoreself erginst Bas Rowlett." "Bas Rowlett!" the name broke from her lips with a gasp and a spasmodic heart-clutch of panic. Her well-kept secret stood unveiled!
"Ef so be thar's anybody a-layin' back thar in ther bresh, I reckon he's done concluded ter wait twell he gits ye by yourself," he decided. "Let's be santerin' along." So they went forward until they came to a point where they stood on the unforested patch of a "bald knob." There Rowlett halted again and pointed downward.
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