"Mooney ought to pay a thousand. We've had her better'n ten years
--an' Mooney's crazy as a loon to git her. He'll pay!"

"Jed--" The woman's voice rose above its hoarseness. "Jed--it
ain't right!"

The man laughed. He opened his mouth wide, until his yellow fangs
gleamed in the sun, and the girl with the axe paused for a moment
in her work, and flung back her head, staring at the two before
the cabin door.

"Right?" jeered the man. "Right? That's what you been preachin' me
these last ten years 'bout whiskey-runnin,' but it ain't made me
stop sellin' whiskey, has it? An' I guess it ain't a word that'll
come between Mooney and me--not if Mooney gits his thousand."
Suddenly he turned upon her, a hand half raised to strike. "An' if
you whisper a word to her--if y' double-cross me so much as the
length of your little finger--I'll break every bone in your body,
so help me God! You understand? You won't say anything to her?"

The woman's uneven shoulders drooped lower.

"I won't say ennything, Jed. I--promise."

The man dropped his uplifted hand with a harsh grunt.

"I'll kill y' if you do," he warned.

The girl had dropped her axe, and was coming toward them. She was