The mountaineer's bushy brows came together across the bridge of
his nose and his voice rumbled like distant thunder.

"What's yo' name, stranger, an' what's yo' business over hyeh?"

"Dear me, there you go! You can see I'm fishing, but why does
everybody in these mountains want to know my name?"

"You heerd me!"

"Yes." The fisherman turned again and saw the giant's rugged face
stern and pale with open anger now, and he, too, grew suddenly
serious.

"Suppose I don't tell you," he said gravely. "What--"

"Git!" said the mountaineer, with a move of one huge hairy hand up
the mountain. "An' git quick!"

The fisherman never moved and there was the click of a shell
thrown into place in the Winchester and a guttural oath from the
mountaineer's beard.

"Damn ye," he said hoarsely, raising the rifle. "I'll give ye--"

"Don't, Dad!" shrieked a voice from the bushes. "I know his name,
hit's Jack--" the rest of the name was unintelligible. The
mountaineer dropped the butt of his gun to the ground and laughed.