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“They are real ones all right,” said Marston. “One of them killed a revenue officer at that front door last week, and was killed by the posse as he was trying to escape out of the back window. That house will be in ashes soon,” he added. And it was.

As we rode down the mountain we told him about our trip and the people with whom we had spent the night–and all the time he was smiling curiously.

“Buck,” he said. “Oh, yes, I know that little chap. Mart had him posted down there on the river to toll you to his house–to toll YOU,” he added to the Blight. He pulled in his horse suddenly, turned and looked up toward the top of the mountain.

“Ah, I thought so.” We all looked back. On the edge of the cliff, far upward, on which the “blind Tiger” sat was a gray horse, and on it was a man who, motionless, was looking down at us.

“He’s been following you all the way,” said the engineer.

“Who’s been following us?” I asked.

“That’s Mart up there–my friend and yours,” said Marston to the Blight. “I’m rather glad I didn’t meet you on the other side of the mountain–that’s ‘the Wild Dog.'” The Blight looked incredulous, but Marston knew the man and knew the horse.

So Mart–hard-working Mart–was the Wild Dog, and he was content to do the Blight all service without thanks, merely for the privilege of secretly seeing her face now and then; and yet he would not look upon that face when she was a guest under his roof and asleep.

Still, when we dropped behind the two girls I gave Marston the Hon. Sam’s warning, and for a moment he looked rather grave.

“Well,” he said, smiling, “if I’m found in the road some day, you’ll know who did it.”

I shook my head. “Oh, no; he isn’t that bad.”

“I don’t know,” said Marston.

The smoke of the young engineer’s coke ovens lay far below us and the Blight had never seen a coke-plant before. It looked like Hades even in the early dusk–the snake-like coil of fiery ovens stretching up the long, deep ravine, and the smoke-streaked clouds of fire, trailing like a yellow mist over them, with a fierce white blast shooting up here and there when the lid of an oven was raised, as though to add fresh temperature to some particular male-factor in some particular chamber of torment. Humanity about was joyous, however. Laughter and banter and song came from the cabins that lined the big ravine and the little ravines opening into it. A banjo tinkled at the entrance of “Possum Trot,” sacred to the darkies. We moved toward it. On the stoop sat an ecstatic picker and in the dust shuffled three pickaninnies–one boy and two girls–the youngest not five years old. The crowd that was gathered about them gave way respectfully as we drew near; the little darkies showed their white teeth in jolly grins, and their feet shook the dust in happy competition. I showered a few coins for the Blight and on we went–into the mouth of the many-peaked Gap. The night train was coming in and everybody had a smile of welcome for the Blight–post-office assistant, drug clerk, soda-water boy, telegraph operator, hostler, who came for the mules–and when tired, but happy, she slipped from her saddle to the ground, she then and there gave me what she usually reserves for Christmas morning, and that, too, while Marston was looking on. Over her shoulder I smiled at him.

That night Marston and the Blight sat under the vines on the porch until the late moon rose over Wallens Ridge, and, when bedtime came, the Blight said impatiently that she did not want to go home. She had to go, however, next day, but on the next Fourth of July she would surely come again; and, as the young engineer mounted his horse and set his face toward Black Mountain, I knew that until that day, for him, a blight would still be in the hills.