other would fall.

A rifle shot rang out scarce a hundred yards from her. The heart of the
girl stood still. After what seemed an interminable time there came to
her the sound of a care-free whistle. Presently her brother sauntered
into view, a dead squirrel in his hand. The tails of several others
bulged from the game bag by his side. The sister did not need to be told
that four out of five had been shot through the head.

"Thought I heard voices. Was some one with you, sis?" the boy asked.

"Who'd be with me here?" she countered lazily.

A second time she was finding refuge in the for-get-me-nots.

He was a barefoot little fellow, slim and hard as a nail. In his hand he
carried an old-fashioned rifle almost as long as himself. There was a
lingering look of childishness in his tanned, boyish face. His hands and
feet were small and shapely as those of a girl. About him hung the stolid
imperturbability of the Southern mountaineer. Times were when his blue
eyes melted to tenderness or mirth; yet again the cunning of the jungle
narrowed them to slits hard, as jade. Already, at the age of fourteen, he
had been shot at from ambush, had wounded a Roush at long range, had
taken part in a pitched battle. The law of the feud was tempering his
heart to implacability.

The keen gaze of the boy rested on her. Ever since word had reached the
Clantons of how 'Lindy had "carried on" with Dave Roush at the dance on
Lonesome her people had watched her suspiciously. The thing she had done
had been a violation of the hill code and old Clay Clanton had thrashed