Thar's no use harryin' the boy," he said; "I reckon he'll be too puny
to take a hand."

The mother stopped clearing the table, and sat on the rock hearth
close to the fire, her withered lips shut tight about a lighted pipe,
and her sunken eyes glowing like the coal of fire in its black bowl.
Now and then she would stretch her knotted hands nervously into
the flames, or knit them about her knees, looking closely at the
heavy faces about her, which had lightened a little with
expectancy. Rufe Stetson stood before the blaze, his hands
clasped behind him, and his huge figure bent in reflection. At
intervals he would look with half-shut eyes at Rome, who Sat with
troubled face outside the firelight. Across the knees of Steve
Marcum, the best marksman in the mountains, lay the barrel of a
new Winchester. Old Sam Day, Rufe's father-in-law and
counsellor to the Stetsons for a score of years, sat as if asleep on
the opposite side of the fireplace from the old mother, with his big
square head pressed down between his misshapen shoulders.

"The time hev come, Rome." Rufe spoke between the puffs of his
pipe, and Rome's heart quickened, for every eye was upon him.
Thar's goin' to be trouble now. I hear as how young Jasper hev
been talkin' purty tall about ye-'lowin' as how ye air afeard O' him."

Rome felt his mother's burning look. He did not turn toward her
nor Rufe, but his face grew sullen, and his voice was low and
harsh. "I reckon he'll find out about that when the time comes," he
said, quietly-too quietly, for the old mother stirred uneasily, and
significant glances went from eye to eye. Rufe did not look up