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“Forgive your enemies;” that was the rider’s plea. Forgive old Steve, who had mocked him, and had driven Rome from the mountains; who had threatened old Gabe’s life, and had shot Steve Marcum almost to death! The lad drew breath quickly, and standing in his stirrups, stretched out his fist, and let it drop, slowly.

II.

OLD Gabe was just starting out when Isom’ reached the cabin, and the old man thought the boy had been at the mill all night. Isom slept through the day, and spoke hardly a word when the miller came home, though the latter had much to say of Raines, the two Steves, and of the trouble possible. He gave some excuse for not going with old Gabe the next day, and instead went into the woods alone.

Late in the middle of the afternoon he reached the mill. Old Gabe sat smoking outside the door, and Isom stretched himself out on the platform close to the water, shading his eyes from the rich sunlight with one ragged sleeve.

“Uncl’ Gabe,” he said, suddenly, “s’posin’ Steve Brayton was to step out’n the bushes thar some mawnin’ ‘n’ pull down his Winchester on ye, would ye say, ‘Lawd, fergive him, fer he don’t know whut he do’?”

Old Gabe had told him once about a Stetson and a Lewallen who were heard half a mile away praying while they fought each other to death with Winchesters. “There was no use prayin’ an’ shootin’,” the miller declared. There was but one way for them to escape damnation; that was to throw down their guns and make friends. But the miller had forgotten, and his mood that morning was whimsical.

“Well, I mought, Isom,” he said, “ef I didn’t happen to have a gun handy.”

The humor was lost on Isom. His chin was moving up and down, and his face was serious. That was just it. He could forgive Jass–Jass was dead; he could forgive Crump, if he caught him in no devilment; old Brayton even–after Steve’s revenge was done. But now–The boy rose, shaking his head.

“Uncl’ Gabe,” he said with sudden passion, “whut ye reckon Rome’s a-doin’?”

The miller looked a little petulant. “Don’t ye git tired axin’ me thet question, Isom? Rome’s a-scratchin’ right peert fer a livin’, I reckon, fer hisself ‘n’ Marthy. Yes, ‘n’ mebbe fer a young ‘un too by this time. Ef ye air honin’ fer Rome, why don’t ye rack out ‘n’ go to him? Lawd knows I’d hate ter see ye go, but I tol’ Rome I’d let ye whenever ye got ready, ‘n’ so I will.”

Isom had no answer, and old Gabe was puzzled. It was always this way. The boy longed for Rome, the miller could see. He spoke of him sometimes with tears, and sometimes he seemed to be on the point of going to him, but he shrank inexplicably when the time for leaving came.

Isom started into the mill now without a word, as usual. Old Gabe noticed that his feet were unsteady, and with quick remorse began to question him.

“Kinder puny, hain’t ye, Isom?”

“Well, I hain’t feelin’ much peert.”

“Hit was mighty keerless,” old Gabe said, with kindly reproach, “swimmin’ the crick atter a fresh.”

“Hit wasn’t the swimmin’,” he protested, dropping weakly at the threshold. “Hit was settin’ out ‘n the woods. I was in Hazlan t’other night, Und’ Gabe, to hear the new rider.”

The miller looked around with quick interest. “I’ve been skeered afore by riders a-tellin’ ’bout the torments o’ hell, but I never heerd nothin’ like his tellin’ ’bout the Lord. He said the Lord was jes as pore as anybody thar, and lived jes as rough; thet He made fences and barns n’ ox-yokes ‘n’ sech like, an’ He couldn’t write His own name when He started out to save the worl’; an’ when he come to the p’int whar His enemies tuk hol’ of Him, the rider jes crossed his fingers up over his head ‘n’ axed us if we didn’t know how it hurt to run a splinter into a feller’s hand when he’s loggin’ or a thorn into yer foot when ye’re goin’ barefooted.”