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“Jus’ a hole in the groun’,” he said, half to himself; “that’s whut we’re all comm’ to! ‘Pears like we mought help one ‘nother to keep out’n hit, ‘stid o’ holpin’ ’em in.”

Brown shadows were interlacing out in the mill-pond, where old Gabe’s eyes were intent. A current of cool air had started down the creek to the river. A katydid began to chant. Twilight was coming, and the miller rose.

“Hit’s a comfort to know you won’t be mixed up in all this devilment,” he said; and then, as though he had found more light in the gloom: “Hit’s a comfort to know the new rider air shorely a-preachin’ the right doctrine, ‘n’ I want ye to go hear him. Blood for blood-life fer a life! Your grandad shot ole Tom Lewallen in Hazlan. Ole Jack Lewallen shot him from the bresh. Tom Stetson killed ole Jack; ole Jass killed Tom, ‘n’ so hit comes down, fer back as I can ricollect. I hev nuver knowed hit to fail.” The lad had risen on one elbow. His face was pale and uneasy, and he averted it when the miller turned in the door.

“You’d better stay hyeh, son, ‘n’ finish up the grist. Hit won’t take long. Hev ye got victuals fer yer supper?”

Isom nodded, without looking around, and when old Gabe was gone he rose nervously and dropped helplessly back to the floor.

“‘Pears like old Gabe knows I killed Jass,” he breathed, sullenly. “‘Pears like all of ’em knows hit, ‘n’ air jus’ a-tormentin’ me.”

Nobody dreamed that the boy and his old gun had ended that fight on the cliff; and without knowing it, old Gabe kept the lad in constant torture with his talk of the blood-penalty. But Isom got used to it in time, for he had shot to save his brother’s life. Steve Marcum treated him thereafter as an equal. Steve’s friends, too, changed in manner towards him because Steve had. And now, just when he had reached the point of wondering whether, after all, there might not be one thing that old Gabe did not know, Crump had come along with the miller’s story, which he had got from still another, a circuit-rider, who must know the truth. The fact gave him trouble.

“Mebbe hit’s goin’ to happen when I goes with Steve atter ole Brayton,” he mumbled, and he sat thinking the matter over, until a rattle and a whir inside the mill told him that the hopper was empty. He arose to fill it, and coming out again, he heard hoof-beats on the dirt road. A stranger rode around the rhododendrons and shouted to him, asking the distance to Hazlan. He took off his hat when Isom answered, to wipe the dust and perspiration from his face, and the boy saw a white scar across his forehead. A little awestricken, the lad walked towards him.

“Air you the new rider whut’s goin’ to preach up to Hazlan?” he asked.

Raines smiled at the solemnity of the little fellow. “Yes,” he said, kindly. “Won’t you come up and hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, and his lips parted as though he wanted to say something else, but Raines did not notice.

“I wished I had axed him,” he said, watching the preacher ride away. “Uncle Gabe knows might’ nigh ever’thing, ‘n’ he says so. Crump said the rider said so; but Crump might ‘a’ been lyin’. He ‘most al’ays is. I wished I had axed him.”

Mechanically the lad walked along the millrace, which was made of hewn boards and hollow logs. In every crevice grass hung in thick bunches to the ground or tipped wiry blades over the running water. Tightening a prop where some silvery jet was getting too large, he lifted the tail-gate a trifle and lay down again on the platform near the old wheel. Out in the mill-pond the water would break now and then into ripples about some unwary moth, and the white belly of a fish would flash from the surface. It was the only sharp accent on the air. The chant of the katydids had become a chorus, and the hush of darkness was settling over the steady flow of water and the low drone of the millstones.