hollow of her hand."

"It's her you got to reckon with," returned the companion gloomily.
"This blasted long winter's got the boys right on edge. They're jus'
spoiling for some deviltry or other, and if she comes out in front of
the curtain and makes an appeal to 'em, why, there'll be one of the
meanest scraps that's been seen in the mountains for some time."

"You bet," agreed the sheriff. "What do you suppose that Seagreave's
chinning Hughie about."

"God knows!" returned his pessimistic companion. "Nothing that's going
to help us any, you can stake your bottom dime on that. Here she comes
again, and you and me's just as big fools about her as the rest if we'd
let ourselves be."

This time Pearl danced the autumn, a vision of crimson and gold, with
grape leaves wreathing her black hair. If Hugh had conveyed to her any
disturbing news during the intermission, she showed no trace of it in
her dancing, and if she had stirred her audience to impassioned
enthusiasm before, it was unlimited, almost frantic now. She was the
flame of autumn upon the mountain hillsides, a torch burning with the
joy of life and flinging her gay, defiant splendor in the menacing face
of winter. Before she had finished the house was on its feet, shouting
and clapping and refusing to let her leave the stage.

"She's gone to their heads worse'n wine," muttered the sheriff. "I
suppose it's now she's goin' to ask 'em to stand by her, an' with
leaders like Gallito an' Bob Flick an' Harry Seagreave to line 'em up
an' carry things with a rush, where in hell are we?"