upon a level with his, I managed to gain some slight glimpse of the
scene within the cabin.

Mrs. Bungay stood with her back to the fireplace, an iron skillet
firmly gripped in one hand. Her face was red with indignation, and
there was a look in her eyes, together with a defiant set to her chin,
which promised trouble. In front of her, carelessly resting on the
table, his feet dangling in the air, was a sturdy-looking fellow of
forty or so, with red, straggling beard covering all the lower half of
his face, and a weather-worn black hat pulled so low as almost to
conceal his eyes. His attire was nondescript, as though he had
patronized the junk-shop of both armies. In his belt were thrust a
revolver and a knife, while within easy reach of his hand a musket
leaned against a chair. Two others of the party, younger men, but even
more roughly dressed than their leader, were lounging between him and
the door.

Bungay chuckled expectantly.

"O Lord! if they only git the ol' gal just a little more riled," he
whispered hoarsely, jumping up and down on one foot in his excitement,
"they'll hev ther fight of their life."

"Do you know the fellows?" I asked. "Is that Red Lowrie?"

He shook his head.

"Never laid eyes on any of 'em afore, but ye bet they're no good.
Reckon they're a part o' his crowd."