the white-faced little son across the foot of the death-bed:

"You'll git him fer me--some day."

"I'll git him, pap."

Those were the words that passed, and in them was neither the
asking nor the giving of a promise, but a simple statement and a
simple acceptance of a simple trust, and the father passed with a
grim smile of content. Like every Hawn the boy believed that a
Honeycutt was the assassin, and in the solemn little fellow one
purpose hitherto had been supreme--to discover the man and avenge
the deed; and though, young as he was, he was yet too cunning to
let the fact be known, there was no male of the name old enough to
pull the trigger, not even his mother's brother, Babe, who did not
fall under the ban of the boy's deathless hate and suspicion. And
always his mother, though herself a Honeycutt, had steadily fed
his purpose, but for a long while now she had kept disloyally
still, and the boy had bitterly learned the reason.

It was bedtime now, and little Jason rose and went within. As he
climbed the steps leading to his loft, he spoke at last, nodding
his head toward the cabin over the spur:

"I reckon I know whut you two are up to, and, furhermore, you are
aimin' to sell this land. I can't keep you from doin' it, I
reckon, but I do ask you not to sell without lettin' me know. I
know somet'n' 'bout it that nobody else knows. An' if you don't
tell me--" he shook his head slowly, and the mother looked at her
boy as though she were dazed by some spell.