"I've heard of him."

"Most everybody in these mountains has. He's the feller that's
always causin' trouble. Him and Joe Falin agreed to go West last
fall to end the war. Joe was killed out thar, and now Rufe claims
Joe don't count now an' he's got the right to come back. Soon's he
comes back, things git frolicksome agin. He swore he wouldn't go
back unless another Falin goes too. Wirt Falin agreed, and that's
how they made peace to-day. Now Rufe says he won't go at all--
truce or no truce. My wife in thar is a Tolliver, but both sides
comes to me and I keeps peace with both of 'em."

No doubt he did, Hale thought, keep peace or mischief with or
against anybody with that face of his. That was a common type of
the bad man, that horseman who had galloped away from the gate--
but this old man with his dual face, who preached the Word on
Sundays and on other days was a walking arsenal; who dreamed
dreams and had visions and slipped through the hills in his
mysterious moccasins on errands of mercy or chasing men from
vanity, personal enmity or for fun, and still appeared so sane--he
was a type that confounded. No wonder for these reasons and as a
tribute to his infernal shrewdness he was known far and wide as
the Red Fox of the Mountains. But Hale was too tired for further
speculation and presently he yawned.

"Want to lay down?" asked the old man quickly.

"I think I do," said Hale, and they went inside. The little old
woman had her face to the wall in a bed in one corner and the Red
Fox pointed to a bed in the other: