The town marshal at Jackson was Micah French, and he was town marshal because his temperament was not one to be depressed by the quick step of stressful events. The arrival in town of men a-gallop and inflamed by liquor was not in those days unusual, and was regarded with a certain tolerance. The law was accustomed to let youth have its fling and later, under circumstances more auspicious, to serve a writ on the offender and hale him in a spirit of contrition before the magistrate.

This, however, was no ordinary day. Had Newt Spooner timed his demonstration for forty-five minutes earlier, his coming would have set such a large storm thundering that no peace-maker could have averted battle. Newt had waited, hoping to placate the Deacon, and had failed. Now, in desperation, he was running amuck. For a moment, Micah French, loitering at the curb in front of the court-house, failed to grasp the significance of the matter. He followed the course of usage, and allowed Newt to pass by.

But the Deacon, standing in a doorway which McAllister and Henry Falkins were just then approaching, recognized the full threat of the episode. He was accompanied by the six men of both clans, who had undertaken to act as the personal guard for Old Mack. As the two peace-makers came abreast, the Deacon, laying a hand on the arm of each, halted them and gave a signal to the others to close around. Then, as the two men, so suddenly swallowed in a human cordon, still questioned without comprehension, they were borne back into the doorway of the small shack store, and the Deacon with his three Spooner kinsmen ran again to the street.

The Falkins guardsmen had taken in the whole situation at a glance, and they remained indoors with the men whose safeguarding had suddenly become something more than an honorary task. The thing had been abrupt, but they needed no explanation. A Spooner had "bust loose," and to the Spooners belonged the first duty of handling their own law-breakers. If the Spooners failed, then they could themselves act later.

So, Newt, aflame with rage and the liquor which during all the forenoon he had been drinking, jerked his horse to its flanks, and looked wildly about. He had been riding in the approved fashion of the mountain bad man with his reins in his teeth and both hands dedicated to his firearms. His feet had been flying like flails because the old nag was unresponsive to his belligerent ardor and lent itself grudgingly to this mad career. But, spurring and shouting through his clenched teeth with his body swung sidewise for the broadside, Newt suddenly saw his victim surrounded and spirited into a place of safety. Then, with a howl of anger, he took one hand from his rifle to drag at his horse's mouth. He was going into that house, if he had to fight his way over every man in Jackson. By-standers scattered, not because they feared a drunken boy with a gun, but because just now they stood on their good behavior, and hesitated to shoot.

"Let me git at Henry Falkins! Git outen my road!" screamed the boy. His whole appearance was that of a maniac, and, as he spoke, the Deacon and his three henchmen came hurrying from the door into the street. Newt did not see them because his mad course had carried him a few yards beyond the shack which was his objective, but Black Pete and his allies were losing no time. As the boy swung himself from his saddle on the far side of his nag, his eyes still turned inward, he flung himself straight into the bear-like hug of the Deacon. Before he could struggle free, he was pinioned by three other pairs of arms, and was a prisoner. Kicking, biting and bellowing, he was disarmed and carried unceremoniously out into the street.

Someone asked contemptuously, "Who is that fool kid?" for Newt had not been much seen in Jackson since they had taken him down to the state prison, and to many persons he was still a stranger.

The boy himself tried to answer, but was silenced by a hand clapped roughly over his mouth; so he only gurgled and choked.

"It's only Little Newt Spooner," enlightened the Deacon commiseratingly. "He's just got drunk, an' ain't hardly responsible. Where's Micah French?"

"What air ye 'lowin' ter do with him?" asked a Falkins man, who expected the lad's kinsmen to make excuses for him, and carry him back to his own cabin. The Deacon looked up with a glance of grave reproach, as though the question grieved him.

"What can we do with him, except put him in the jail-house? He was breakin' the law, wasn't he? He was threatenin' the peace and quiet, an' endangerin' human life, wasn't he?"

It was a timely and popular play. The Deacon had offered to prove his conversion by his works, and here within the hour was an opportunity ready to his hand. It was a thing almost unheard of in feud usage, this turning a relative over to Falkins officers. And yet as greatly as it strengthened him in the eyes of the public, it carried a tremendous danger. He could now expect no loyalty from Newt. Newt, if he came to trial, might be stung into telling what he knew of the Deacon's part in the murder of old Jake. Still, it was a case for quick decision, and he did not hesitate. Moreover, Newt in jail would be more amenable to persuasion than Newt out of jail.

Falkins men gravely declared that Black Pete was standing up to his contract, and, since none of the Spooners cared much for "little Newt," he had small sympathy among his own kindred.

To the left of Jackson's court-house sits Jackson's "jail-house"—for the mountaineer would as readily call a court-house a court as a jail-house a jail. It is a small building of home-baked bricks, and its windows are low and iron-barred. Just now, it was empty—save for Newt Spooner. The solitary inmate was not to be released until the Deacon spoke the word, but there was no intention of bringing him to trial. It was merely a case of "sobering up" explained the peace-maker, as he rejoined the street crowd.

Not until the next day did the Deacon go to the boy there, and when he went, he went alone.

"Son," he said sadly, as he looked down on the seated figure, which did not rise to receive him, "I hated to do you that way worse than I can tell you. You know why I had to do it, don't you?"

"I knows," accused the boy bitterly, "that ye gits ever'body kilt thet ye wants kilt, an' I knows thet ye lied ter me an' fooled me. I knows thet ye've done been a damned traitor."

"I reckon it does look right smart that way to you, son," acceded the other. "It can't hardly help seemin' that way—an' yet I was tryin' to save your life, an' I did save it."

"I hain't none beholden ter ye fer thet," snorted Newt. "I didn't ask ye ter save my life. I'd a heap ruther ye'd quit a-meddlin' so damn' much in my business."

"But listen, son. A man can afford to look ahead an' bide his time. Just now, we've got to lay low an' keep quiet. All the Spooners except you have agreed to do that. You're a young feller with your life ahead of you, and waitin' a little won't hurt you. You've got to let this Falkins boy alone for a year. When I talked to you at Winchester, I didn't rightly know how things stood down here. Give me your hand on that, an' I'll get you out of here."

"I won't do hit," snapped the boy, defiantly.

"Then I guess you'd better stay here a while." The Deacon's voice was regretful.

"Ye means thet I kin lie in this jail-house tell I promises ye not ter hurt Henry Falkins?"

"Till you promise not to hurt him for a year," amended the other.

"An' I tells ye you kin everlastin'ly go ter hell!" shouted Newt, his face working spasmodically under his wrath.

It would have brought a ray of comfort to Newt, had he known that Minerva had fought back her disgust for the wild and lawless picture he had made, and had asked permission to visit him in the jail. She had wanted to plead with him, as the Deacon had pleaded, though it was not for a year, but for always, that she would have begged him to bury his enmity. Perhaps, she thought, if in this hour he felt the hand-clasp of friendship, he might realize that there are better things than hatred and the blind service of hatred. But the Deacon thought it best that no one save himself should talk with Newt. He might tell too much.

"I'm right sorry," he said, and his eyes were gravely sympathetic; "but the boy's been drinkin' right smart, an' I reckon it wouldn't hardly be best for you to see him. No, it wouldn't hardly be wise."

Three days the Deacon left him there, but on each day he argued at length and kindly, pointing out that his action was the hard course of one who could not permit his sympathies to swerve him. Meanwhile, the prisoner was practically in solitary confinement, for the Falkins jailer followed the Deacon's directions, and allowed no one else to talk with him.

On the third day, Newt capitulated, and, though his promise of twelve months of forbearance was given under duress, and the Deacon knew he had incurred an enmity which would be lifelong, he knew, too, that the promise would be kept. That night Newt rode sullenly to the cabin on Troublesome, and stabled and fed the nag, and, when he had taken his place in front of the fire, he sat moodily and in unbroken silence for a half-hour, and then he looked up, and said shortly,

"Clem, I reckon I'm a-ready to do my sheer of work on the place. I'll feed the hawgs in ther mornin'."

A cold drizzle had come with nightfall; a fire had been built. One by one, the family "lay down," and from the four corners of the room came the heavy breathing of their slumber. But Minerva did not at once fall asleep, and so she knew that far into the night Newt sat gazing into the dying embers, and she covertly and shyly watched his face, very drawn and miserable.

At last, she slipped from the covers, and, coming over, laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Newt," she said in a low voice, "you're in trouble, boy—and I'm sorry."

"Thet's all right, Minervy," he answered, without moving, but into the surliness of his voice crept a trace of breaking.

Some day, of course, she must tell him exactly how responsible she had been for his failure, but just now she could not. He was wretched because he had not succeeded in repeating the infamy and the crime which had at first wrecked his life. By every theory of morals and every form of right-thinking he was beyond the pale of sympathy—and yet—Minerva Rawlins had in her veins enough of vendetta blood to understand that his suffering was genuine and that from his one view-point he had defaulted a debt of honor.

It was a thing of her doing, a thing which, if need be, she would do again; but that did not prevent her seeing in the thin, haggard-faced boy, who watched the embers die to ashes, a creature for whom she could feel sorrow—even sympathy. Perhaps it was a sympathy too wide in its scope; but, if so, it was a criticism for which Christ, Lord of broad sympathies, might, possibly, have felt a leniency.

In the months that followed, Henry Falkins organized and drilled into some semblance of military form a company of militiamen. His men were enlisted from Falkins and Falerin territory, and, though he invited the Spooners to join them, the distance made it impracticable. Henry believed that by military training these people might be weaned from lawless intolerance to a rudimentary acceptance of discipline.

One day, Newt Spooner, having ridden over to Jackson, saw these raw amateurs going through their manual of arms, and he stood at the side and sneered contemptuously as he watched. But the Deacon, who watched, too, did not sneer. With a constant diplomacy Black Pete had rehabilitated his reputation, and, if any of the Falkins clan still disbelieved in his sincerity, he was lonely in his scepticism. Men on both sides ceased to speak of the "truce," and called it by the more permanent name of "peace." But, reflected the far-sighted Deacon, there might come an outbreak some day, and then it would be no advantage to the Spooners to have a hundred Falkinses take to the brush with the high-power military rifles. It would be just as well, if this militia idea were a good one, to carry it further. The county should have not one company—but two. Over in the section where the Spooners held dominance, the second should be mustered. So, in the course of time, the Spooner platoons were duly organized and taken into the state guard. The Deacon himself consented only to become a sergeant. Yet, from the inception, it was the sergeant, rather than the captain or lieutenant, who dictated every matter of importance.

The feeling between the erstwhile enemies had become outwardly so cordial that a challenge was given and accepted for a competitive drill, and Newt, who had at first scoffed and then yielded to the lure of the military, marched with his comrades the little matter of twenty miles to Jackson, bearing a Springfield rifle and wearing a state uniform.

He had seen Henry Falkins only once since that Fourth of July, and it was now October. The hills were ablaze with gold and burgundy and scarlet. Newt knew that Captain Falkins would not command his company that day: that he was in fact "down below." Had he not been assured of this, he would have stayed at home and sulked in the woods.

He was biding his time. He had neither forgotten nor forgiven.

And yet, in spite of the black shadows of a life which exalted the vindictive and scowled on every gracious thing, Newt Spooner felt to-day the stirring of a new emotion. In this novel game of playing soldier, he found, rather against his will, an interest that threatened to become an enthusiasm. For the first time in his lonely life, he began to taste, with a tang of relish, the pleasures of companionship. These men with whom he hiked accorded him a rough fellowship. At first, he had been suspicious and surly, but now, when they called him the "tough kid of Troublesome," he grinned sheepishly and without resentment. Newt was waking out of a sleep that had lasted since babyhood and that had been all nightmare.

The flaming hills with their veils of violet haze across the distances; the cheerful rustle of crisp leaves under foot; the whole autumnal gamut of color and fragrance and spice was softening the world, even to its hard men of the mountains. They swung their rifles and kits with a tramp-like slouchiness, and when the noon grew warm they insisted on hiking with their shirt-tails outside their trousers; but in their swinging gait was a tireless energy that could walk armory-trained men off their feet, and then, if called on, go fresh into battle.

They swung down Jay-bird Creek, and passed the mouth of Fist-fight, and there, lying above its saw-mill, came to view a bit of landscape as much out of the picture as though it had been torn from another page of the geography and pasted there by mistake. At the edge of a town, so sprawling and ragged that one did not see it until he stumbled upon it out of a creek-bed gulch, spread the smooth campus of the college.

But, before they reached that point, the commanding officer halted his command.

"Boys," was his informal suggestion, "we're about to pass thet-there new-fangled college. I reckon we mout es well give them folks a treat. Let's fall in an' march by there like shore-'nough soldiers."

Newt Spooner happened to be the file of his four, and as they trailed by the cheering little group of students, the ex-convict saw "Clem's gal" leaning on the palings, and though he did not know why, he felt something akin to pride and excitement, and straightened his shoulders, and bore his rifle more jauntily. Minerva leaned forward, waving her sun-bonnet, and called out, "Newt, I hope you boys win," and the lad marched on, strangely pleased.

In that picture of men marching in ordered ranks, and wearing the uniform which denoted service, she thought she saw a long step toward conversion, and an approach to a better standard, and Minerva, too, felt a flutter of pleasure as she watched the column disappear around the curve of the road with its yellow dust-cloud clinging in its wake.

The militia officer from the bluegrass, who had come to act as umpire, masked his smile as he judged that contest. Then the amusement died, and he remembered Napoleon's criterion: "The best soldier is he who can bivouac shelterless, throughout the year."

A temporary rifle-range had been established, and in the improvised pit, with a fifty-year-old sergeant acting as target-marker, sat the officer from "down below." The mountaineer squatted like a clay effigy on his heels, and smoked a cob pipe.

"Sergeant," suggested the officer in a pause, during the overhead shrieking of rifle-bullets, "in case trouble started down here in the hills—I mean if soldiers were called out—what do you think these men would do? Could they be relied on?"

The mountaineer drew a long puff from his pipe, and smiled grimly.

"Wall, now, lew-tenant," he drawled thoughtfully, "I'll jest tell ye ther truth. Ef thar was ter be trouble somewhars else these-here fellers would be all right; but jest right round hyar—well, I hain't so plumb shore."

"Then you think—?" The officer left the question unfinished, and the target-marker again grinned.

"I hain't thinkin' nothin' much, but ye kin jedge yerself, lew-tenant, thet ef a couple of hundred fellers with these-hyar fur-shootin' guns was ter take ter the brush, thar mout be some hell ter pay fer a spell. I kinder reckon," he added gravely, "thet, ef things bust loose hyar-abouts, hit mout be a right-good idee ter take all these fellers up to Loueyville and lock 'em up in the jail-house thar. It mout be a right-good idea."