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Old Gabe did not see the sullen despair that came into the boy’s tense face. The subtlety of the answer had taken the old man back to the days when he was magistrate, and his eyes were half closed. Isom rode away without a word. From the dark of the mill old Gabe turned to look after him again.

“I’m afeerd he’s a-gittin’ feverish agin. Hit looks like he’s convicted; but”–he knew the wavering nature of the boy–“I don’t know–I don’t know.”

Going home an hour later, the old man saw several mountaineers climbing the path towards Steve Marcum’s cabin; it meant the brewing of mischief; and when he stopped at his own gate, he saw at the bend of the road a figure creep from the bushes on one side into the bushes on the other.

It looked like Crump.

III.

IT was Crump, and fifty yards behind him was Isom, slipping through the brush after him–Isom’s evil spirit–old Gabe, Raines, “conviction,” blood-penalty, forgotten, all lost in the passion of a chase which has no parallel when the game is man.

Straight up the ravine Crump went along a path which led to Steve Marcum’s cabin. There was a clump of rhododendron at the head of the ravine, and near Steve’s cabin. About this hour Marcum would be chopping wood for supper, or sitting out in his porch in easy range from the thicket. Crump’s plan was plain: he was about his revenge early, and Isom was exultant.

“Oh, no, Eli, you won’t git Steve this time. Oh, naw!”

The bushes were soon so thick that he could no longer follow Crump by sight, and every few yards he had to stop to listen, and then steal on like a mountain-cat towards the leaves rustling ahead of him. Half-way up the ravine Crump turned to the right and stopped. Puzzled, Isom pushed so close that the spy, standing irresolute on the edge of the path, whirled around. The boy sank to his face, and in a moment footsteps started and grew faint; Crump had darted across the path, and was running through the undergrowth up the spur. Isom rose and hurried after him; and when, panting hard, he reached the top, the spy’s skulking figure was sliding from Steve’s house and towards the Breathitt road; and with a hot, puzzled face, the boy went down after it.

On a little knob just over a sudden turn in the road Crump stopped, and looking sharply about him, laid his gun down. Just in front of him were two rocks, waist-high, with a crevice between them. Drawing a long knife from his pocket, he climbed upon them, and began to cut carefully away the spreading top of a bush that grew on the other side. Isom crawled down towards him like a lizard, from tree to tree. A moment later the spy was filling up the crevice with stones, and Isom knew what he was about; he was making a “blind” to waylay Steve, who, the boy knew, was going to Breathitt by that road the next Sunday. How did Crump know that–how did he know everything? The crevice filled, Crump cut branches and stuck them between the rocks. Then he pushed his rifle through the twigs, and taking aim several times, withdrew it. When he turned away at last and started down to the road, he looked back once more, and Isom saw him grinning. Almost chuckling in answer, the lad slipped around the knob to the road the other way, and Crump threw up his gun with a gasp of fright when a figure rose out of the dusk before him.

“Hol’ on, Eli!” said Isom, easily. “Don’t git skeered! Hit’s nobody but me. Whar ye been?”

Crump laughed, so quick was he disarmed of suspicion. “Jes up the river a piece to see Aunt Sally Day. She’s a fust cousin o’ mine by marriage.”

Jsom’s right hand was slipping back as if to rest on his hip. “D’you say you’d been ‘convicted,’ Eli?”