Uncle Dick, as he was universally known in the mountains, had celebrated his eightieth birthday before his granddaughters, Plutina and Alvira, by leaping high in the air, and knocking his heels together three times before returning to the ground. There was, in fact, no evidence of decrepitude anywhere about him. The thatch of coal-black hair was only moderately streaked with gray, and it streamed in profuse ringlets to his shoulders. His black eyes were still keen; the leathery face, with its imperious features, was ruddy. He carried his six-foot-three of bone and muscle lightly.

As of the body, so of the heart. The springs of feeling in him showed no signs of drying up. On the contrary, they threatened to gush forth in a new flood over the Widow Brown, on whose plump prettiness, hardly dimmed by her three-score years, he looked with appreciative and ardent eyes. Indeed, his conduct justified the womenfolk of his household in apprehensions, for witness to the seriousness of the affair was afforded the morning 126 after the raid on Dan Hodges’ still. He demanded of Alvira that she burn the grease from an old skillet with great care.

“If they’s a mite of hit, hit makes a scum, an’ floats off the gold on hit,” he explained.

The sisters regarded each other in consternation, but forebore questioning. When he had mounted his mare, and ridden away, Plutina spoke with bitterness:

“I reckon Mis’ Higgins done hit the nail on the haid ’bout Gran’pap an’ the Widder Brown.”

Alvira nodded.

“Yep. Hit means business, shore, if he’s a-gallavantin’ over to Pleasant Valley to pan gold. Hit means he’s aimin’ to marry her.” She waxed scornful, with the intolerance of her sixteen years. “Hit’s plumb ridic’lous—at his age.”

“Seems like he was ’most ole enough to git sense,” Plutina agreed.

“Mebby we’re mistook ’bout his intentions,” Alvira suggested, hopefully. “O’ course, he git’s a heap of enjoyment settin’ to Widder Brown. But he hain’t got to be plumb foolish, an’ marry her. I guess as how hit’s fer you-all he’s arter the gold kase Zeke’ll be comin’ home by-’n’-bye.”

Plutina shook her head dubiously. It was the custom of the lover himself to seek, in the gold-bearing sands of the tiny mountain stream to the 127 west, for the grains from which to fashion a ring for his sweetheart. Many a wife of the neighborhood wore such proudly on forefinger or thumb. The old man was not fond enough of toil to undertake the slow washing out of gold there unless for a selfish sentimental reason. And her fears were confirmed that afternoon by Zeke’s mother whom she visited.

“They hain’t nary chance to save him no more,” the old woman averred, lugubriously. “Hit’s allus been said hyarbouts as how a feller allus gits his gal shore, if he pans her a ring in Pleasant Valley.”

“Huh—girl!” quoth Plutina.

Yet this amorous affair was of small moment just now to the granddaughter, though she voluntarily occupied her thoughts with it. She hoped thus to keep in the background of her mind the many fears that threatened peace, by reason of her part in the night’s work. She knew that she could trust the secrecy of Marshal Stone, but there was the possibility of discovery in some manner unforeseen. There was even the chance that suspicion against her had been aroused in Ben York. She could not bear to contemplate what must follow should her betrayal of the still become known. It was a relief to be certain that the two men she chiefly dreaded would be in jail, and unable personally to wreak vengeance. It was improbable, she thought, that persons so notorious and so detested could secure 128 bail. But, even with them out of the way, the case would be disastrous on account of her grandfather’s hatred of the revenue officers, and more especially, of those among his own people guilty of the baseness of informing. Should her deed come to his knowledge, it would mean tragedy. She dreaded the hour when he should hear of the raid, and was glad that he had gone away, for in all likelihood he would have the news before his return and the first shock of it would have passed.... So it fell out.

Uncle Dick rode briskly toward the little stream that tumbles down the mountain west of Air Bellows Gap, where long ago men washed for gold in feverish desire of wealth. Now, none sought a fortune in the branch grit, where a day’s labor at best could yield no more than a dollar or two in gold. Only devoted swains, like himself, hied them there to win wherewithal for a bauble with which to speed their wooing. Uncle Dick chose a favorable spot, and washed steadily until the blackened old copper skillet itself shone like the flecks of gold he sought. When he ceased he had a generous pinch of the precious dust carefully disposed in a vial. He hid the skillet to serve another day, and set out on his return. Before he crossed Garden Greek, a neighbor, whom he met on the trail, told him of the raid. Eager for all particulars, Uncle Dick turned his mount into the high road, and hurried to Joines’ 129 store. The single-footing mare carried him quickly to this place of assembly for neighborhood gossip, where he found more than the usual number gathered, drawn by excitement over the raid. The company was in a mixed mood, in which traditional enmity against the “revenuers” warred against personal rejoicing over the fate fallen on Dan Hodges, whom they hated and feared. From the garrulous circle of his acquaintance, Uncle Dick speedily learned the history of the night. The account was interrupted by the coming of a clerk to the store door. He waved his hand toward the group on the steps to command attention.

“You, Uncle Dick!” he called. “No’th Wilkesboro’ wants ye on the telephone.”

Wondering mightily at the unexpected summons, the old man hurried to the instrument.

“Hello! Hello!” he roared, in a voice to be heard across the miles.

“Be that you-all, Uncle Dick?” the question came thinly.

“Yep. Who be you?”

“Hit’s Dan Hodges. I reckon you-all done hearn ’bout last night.”

“Yep. I shore have hearn a heap,” Uncle Dick acquiesced, sourly. “I tole ye to quit, the officers air gittin’ so a’mightly peart. They hain’t no more chance fer a good set o’ men to make a run—to say 130 nothin’ of a wuthless gang like your’n.... What ye want o’ me?”

The reply was explicit enough.

“The hearin’ ’s to-morrer ’fore the United States Commissioner. Marshal Stone says the bail’ll be two thousand dollars, cash or land. They hain’t nobody kin put hit up, ’cept you-all, Uncle Dick. An’, if ye don’t, Ben an’ me’ll have to lay in jail till Fall. If ye’ll he’p me, Uncle Dick, ye know Dan Hodges won’t never fail ye.”

“That’s what I’m afeared on,” Uncle Dick retorted, glumly. “I ’most know ’twas you-all an’ yer gang kilt thet-thar heifer o’ mine in cold blood. Now, the ole man ye’ve treated dirt is yer las’ chance. Wall, cuss ye! I’ll come down t’-morrer an’ bail ye out—not kase I love ye any, but kase I’m again the revenuers. An’ listen ’ere! I’m some old, but I’m some spry yit, ye bet! You-all stop round these parts whar I kin keep an eye on ye till Fall Cote. If ye don’t, damn ye!—wall, my ole rifle’s bright an’ ’iled, an’ I’ll git ye! Jest remember thet, Dan Hodges: I’ll git ye!” And with this grim warning, Uncle Dick slammed the receiver on its hook, and stalked out of the store.

On the following day, he journeyed duly to North Wilkesboro’, where, despite the protest of his lawyer, he put up his land as security for the appearance of the two malefactors. Uncle Dick was a 131 consistent conservative. Had the accident of birth made him an English squire, he would have been a stanch Tory, would have held the King’s commission on the bench of justices, and would have administered the penalties of the law with exceeding severity against poachers. Having been born in the Blue Ridge Mountains, he staked his property in behalf of two scoundrels, for the sake of an inherited feud against the Federal authority.

Nevertheless, his personal distrust of the men he had thus relieved was made manifest when, immediately after the commitment of the two before the Commissioner, he betook himself to a hardware store, where he bought a forty-one caliber Colt’s revolver, with a holster and a box of cartridges. He had given up the habitual carrying of weapons on his seventy-fifth birthday, as unseemly and unnecessary for one of his patriarchal years. Now, he reverted to the use as a measure of prudence.

“The damned dawg’s done me dirt, an’ he hain’t above doin’ hit ag’in,” he muttered, as he strapped the holster beneath his left arm.

To his womankind, Uncle Dick spoke of the affair casually, concealing his apprehensions. Neither of the granddaughters ventured remonstrance, though Alvira’s pretty face was mutinous, and Plutina felt a sickening sense of calamity rushing upon her. It seemed to her the irony of fate that 132 her own relation should thus interfere to render abortive the effect she had risked so much to secure. She realized, with a shrinking misery, that the sufferers from her act were now at liberty to inflict vengeance upon her, should suspicion be born in them. For the first time in her life, Plutina experienced a feminine cowardice, bewailing her helplessness. There was none to whom she might turn for counsel; none, even, in whom she might confide. It was no mere chimera of fear that beset her. She was far too sensible and too strong for hysterical imaginings. But she knew that her peril was real and grave. In the face of it, she felt suddenly a new longing for the absent lover. Hitherto, her fondness had been tender and passionate, touched with the maternal protectiveness that is instinctive in every woman. Now, a new desire of him leaped in her. She yearned for rest on his bosom, secure within the shelter of his arms, there to pour forth all the story of her trouble, there to hear his voice of consolation, there to be at peace. She touched the fairy crystal that lay between her breasts, and she smiled, very sadly, and very wistfully.

“Zeke will shorely come,” she whispered, “if I need him—bad enough.”

There was a tremor in her voice, but it was not of doubt.