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At the word, Crump’s listeners paid sudden heed. Old Gabe’s knife stopped short in the heart of the stick he was whittling; the boy looked sharply up from the running meal into Crump’s face and sat still.

Well, he jes prayed to the Almighty as though he was a-talkin’ to him face to face, ‘n’ then the woman put her hands on that box, ‘n’ the sweetes’ sound anybody thar ever heerd come outen it. Then she got to singin’. Hit wusn’t nuthin’ anybody thar’d ever heerd; but some o’ the women folks was a snifflin’ ‘fore she got through. He pitched right into the feud, as he calls hit, ‘n’ the sin o’ sheddin’ human blood, I tell ye; ‘n’ ‘twixt him and the soldiers I reckon thar won’t be no more fightin’ in Breathitt. He says, ‘n’ he always says it mighty loud –Crump raised his own voice–“thet the man as kills his feller-critter hev some day got ter give up his own blood, sartin ‘n’ shore.”

It was old Gabe’s pet theory, and he was nodding approval. The boy’s parted lips shook with a spasm of fear, and were as quickly shut tight with suspicion. Steve raised his head as though he too had heard the voice, and looked stupidly about him.

“I tol’ him,” Crump went on, “thet things was already a-gettin’ kind o’ frolicsome round hyeh agin; thet the Marcums ‘n’ Braytons was a-takin’ up the ole war, ‘n’ would be a-plunkin’ one ‘nother every time they got together, ‘n’ a-gittin’ the whole country in fear ‘n’ tremblin’–now thet Steve Marcum had come back.”

Steve began to scowl and a vixenish smile hovered at Isom’s lips.

“He knows mighty well–fer I tol’ him–thet thar hain’t a wuss man in all these mountains than thet very Steve–” The name ended in a gasp, and the wizened gossip was caught by the throat and tossed, chair and all, into a corner of the mill.

“None o’ that, Steve!” called the miller, sternly. “Not hyeh. Don’t hurt him now!”

Crump’s face stiffened with such terror that Steve broke into a laugh.

“Well, ye air a skeery critter!” he said, contemptuously. “I hain’t goin’ to hurt him, Uncl’ Gabe, but he must be a plumb idgit, a-talkin’ ’bout folks to thar face, ‘n’ him so puny an’ spindlin’! You git!”

Crump picked himself up trembling–“Don’t ye ever let me see ye on this side o’ the river agin, now “–and shuffled out, giving Marcum one look of fear and unearthly hate.

“Convicted!” snorted Steve. “I heerd old Steve Brayton had hired him to waylay me, ‘n’ I swar I believe hit’s so.”

“Well, he won’t hev to give him more’n a chaw o’ tobaccer now,” said Gabe. “He’ll come purty near doin’ hit hisseif, I reckon, ef he gits the chance.”

“Well, he kin git the chance ef I gits my leetle account settled with ole Steve Brayton fust. ‘Pears like that old hog ain’t satisfied shootin’ me hisself.” Stretching his arms with a yawn, Steve winked at Isom and moved to the door. The boy followed him outside.

“We’re goin’ fer ole Brayton about the dark o’ the next moon, boy,” he said. “He’s sort o’ s’picious now, ‘n’ we’ll give him a leetle time to git tame. I’ll have a bran’-new Winchester fer ye, Isom. Hit ull be like ole times agin, when Rome was hyeh. Whut’s the matter, boy?” he asked, suddenly. Isom looked unresponsive, listless.

“Air ye gittin’ sick agin?”

“Well, I hain’t feelin’ much peert, Steve.”

“Take keer o’ yourself, boy. Don’t git sick now. We’ll have to watch Eli Crump purty close. I don’t know why I hain’t killed thet spyin’ skunk long ago, ‘ceptin’ I never had a shore an’ sartin reason fer doin ‘it.”

Isom started to speak then and stopped. He would learn more first; and he let Steve go on home unwarned.

The two kept silence after Marcum had gone. Isom turned away from old Gabe, and stretched himself out on the platform. He looked troubled. The miller, too, was worried.