EARLY in the morning following the funeral Hoag sent Cato with a message to Paul. There was some work to be done, and the boy was to come at once and see about it. Mrs. Rundel, in her black dress, was near and heard the negro speaking, but she turned indifferently into her room and closed the door.

“Well, I'd go,” Amanda advised her nephew. “Mopin' around home like this won't do any good. At sech a time a body ought to keep the hands an' feet an' even the brain busy. I'd go stark crazy if I'd allow myself to set an' brood. It seems to me that I see yore pore pa's white face everywhar I turn, an' when I ain't seein' that I seem to hear his voice talkin' like nothin' out o' the way had happened. I even git a whiff o' his tobacco now an' then. Do you know, I think maybe death is made horrible like this to warn each of us of what is ahead. Me'n you, as little as we count on it, have got to be put away exactly like Rafe was, an' we may not have any more notice than he had, neither. Some o' the sanctified folks doubt whar he's gone, but I don't—much. Somehow I can't believe that he's gone to a bad place, because he had sech a hard time of it here for sech a long, long time. His pride was cut to the quick, an' he had a lot more o' that than most folks knowed about. Of course, you can't remember his young sparkin' days like I do. He used to dress as fine as a fiddle an' held his head powerful high; but time, an' poverty, an' trouble, an' one thing or other, kept pullin' it down an' down, till it struck the pillow he died on. Well, well, he's gone, an' we 'll miss 'im. I shall, I know, for I already do, an' they say the worst time ain't always right after the buryin'. Thar's always a stir and excitement over puttin' a person away that keeps you from lookin' the thing square in the face.”

Fires of anger and resentment were smoldering in the boy's breast, but he said nothing, and turned down the road to Hoag's. He found the planter moving about in the bark-strewn tan-yard between the vats, the black contents of which were on a level with the ground. He was giving blunt orders to three or four negroes who were piling up and sorting out a great heap of green hides. The day was dry and hot, and a disagreeable odor of decaying flesh was on the still air. He noticed Paul, and carelessly nodded, but for a moment was too busy to speak to him. He held a note-book in his hand, in which he had found some mistakes of record and calculations. They were his own errors, but he was no less angry for that. Finally he approached Paul, and as he moved was actively scratching, erasing, stabbing the paper with his pencil, and muttering oaths.

“How the hell can I do head-work,” he growled, giving the boy a blazing glance, “an' have to watch these black devils like a hawk all the time? The minute my back is turned they set down an' sulk an' shirk. They need a thousand lashes on their bare backs. That's the only thing they understand. Look how that whelp, Sambo, is skulkin'. I hit 'im with a piece o' plank just now, an' he thinks he's threatening me. Huh! I know 'em from the ground up. Did Cato tell you I wanted to see you?”

“Yes, an' I come right over,” Paul stolidly replied.

Hoag closed his note-book, keeping the pencil between the leaves, and thrust it into his pocket. “I saw you comin' back from the graveyard yesterday, an' I decided I'd try to find regular work for you. I kin always depend on you gittin' a job done, an' that's sayin' a lot. You hain't got a lazy bone in your body, if I do say it, an' it will be the makin' of you in the long run. Now, my mill-race has washed in till the flow is gittin' sluggish an' thin. The bottom of it, for fully a quarter of a mile, has got to be shoveled out an' lowered to an even grade. It will take you a month at least, but it will be regular work. The dam's all right, so we don't have to bother with that. I want you to come over every day after breakfast, an' then go to my house for yore dinner. It will save you the walk home, an' you kin git in more time. How would you like the job at the old wages?”

“I'm willin',” Paul answered, listlessly.

“Well, pick you out a spade in the tool-house right now, an' go to the dam an' begin to work toward the mill. The mill's shut down, an' the race bed's just wet enough to make the shovelin' soft. Some o' the banks are purty steep an' you 'll have to throw purty high, but you are equal to it.”

Paul went at once to the mill-dam. The work was really arduous, but the spot was shaded by thickly foliaged trees, and the shallow water, in which he stood in his bare feet, cooled his blood. Bending under his heavy implement filled with the heavier mud he worked like a machine, the sweat streaming from him, and constantly conscious of that strange, aching vacancy in his heart which nothing could fill.

At noon he put down his spade and went to Hoag's, as he had often done before, for his lunch. No one else was in the dining-room, and Mrs. Tilton brought him his dinner, putting it before him in a gentle, motherly way.

“I told Aunt Dilly to let me wait on you,” she said, a note of sympathy creeping into her voice. “I was sorry I couldn't get out to the funeral yesterday. I've got Jackie to watch now, an' he's just gettin' on his feet, after his spell. His mother ain't a bit well, either; she ain't touched hardly a bite since he was so bad off. I think she ought to go to Atlanta to consult a special doctor, but Jim won't hear to it. He says, when a body gits too sick for home treatment their natural time's come, anyway, an' the money would be throwed away. I wish I could tell you how sorry I am about your pa. I know how much you both thought of each other. La, he used to come here while you was choppin' wood on the mountain, an' set in the kitchen door an' talk an' talk with tears in his old eyes about how sorry he was not to be stronger, so you wouldn't have to work so hard. He said you was the best boy that ever lived. Now, I'm just goin' to shet up,” Mrs. Tilton said, regretfully. “I see you are about to cry.” She went to the window quickly and looked out into the yard. “I see Jackie makin' his mud-pies. Oh,” she turned to Paul, “thar's something I wanted to say. You left your gun here t'other day. It's loaded, an' I don't like to see it around. Jackie might git hold of it. I wish you would take it home.”

“I'll take it to work with me now,” Paul promised, “and take it home from there.”

Paul toiled diligently that afternoon till the sun was down. He had just come out of the water, put on his shoes, and with his gun under his arm was starting home, when Hoag appeared on the embankment of the race and surveyed the work which had been done.

“Good, good; prime, prime!” he said, approvingly. “You've done as much as a couple of buck niggers would have done in twice the time. Keep up that lick an' you 'll reach the sluice earlier than I counted on. I won't split hairs with you on the pay for this job. If it goes through at this rate I'll tack on something extra.”

Paul said nothing. He tried to feel grateful for the praise he had received, but he was too tired in body and mind to care for anything. Throughout the long day he had constantly deliberated over the thought that it would now be impossible for him to continue the life he was leading. With the death of his father his heart and soul seemed to have died.

Hoag joined him as he walked homeward, the gun under his arm.

“I could see the graveyard from the hill yesterday,” he remarked, “an' I picked you out in the bunch. You looked powerfully lonely, an' the thought struck me that you was about the only real mourner. Women don't grieve for any but their own babies, an' them two from your house would have acted about the same at any other funeral. I was sorry for your daddy, Paul. He never made much headway in the world, but he deserved a better shake o' the dice. In his last days he toted an awful load. He used to talk purty free to me—just like a child would at times. He talked purty plain to me, I reckon, because he knowed I hain't a speck o' use for the damn snake-in-the-grass that was takin' sech a low, underhanded advantage of him behind his back. You needn't repeat this; I'm tellin' it just to you in private. If—you see, Paul—if it ever does come to words betwixt me an' Jeff Warren, I'll have to shoot 'im as I would a dog, an' a thing like that is troublesome, especially when I look on 'im as mud under my feet. I'd hate to have to stand trial for killin' a puppy, an' the law would demand some form-o' settlement.. Your pa would have killed 'im if he lived. I was lookin' for it every day; he was lyin' low for his chance. Preachers, slobberin' revivalists, an' fools like old Tye will talk to you about turnin' the other cheek; but the great, all-important first law of life is to fight for what you git, hold on to it when you git it, an' mash hell out of everything that tries to run over you. That's been my rule, an' it works like a charm. If I'd been your daddy I'd have shot that dirty whelp two months ago.”

They had reached the point where their ways parted. The gray twilight was thickening. Hoag's big white house gleamed through the trees surrounding it. There were lights in the kitchen and diningroom. All Nature seemed preparing for sleep. The tinkling of sheep and cow bells came drowsily to the ear; the church-bell, a creaking, cast-iron affair, was ringing for the singing-class to meet.

“Well, so long,” Hoag finished, with a wave of his fat hand in the dusk. “Set in bright an' early in the momin' an' let's see how many yards you'll wipe out before sundown.”

Paul walked on, so weary now that the gun he was carrying almost slipped from his inert arm. Presently his own home came into view, beyond the field of corn. Ralph Rundel had planted and hoed so feebly. Paul's heart sank into the very ooze of despair. How incongruous was the thought that his father would not be at the gate to meet him, as had been his habit for so many years! The boy stopped in a corner of the rail fence at the roadside and leaned on his gun. An indescribable pain, which was at once physical and mental, had his whole young being in a crushing grasp. The kitchen door was open, and the red logs of an open fire shone out on the sward about the house. Tree-frogs were snarling, fireflies were flashing here and there over the dewy meadows like tiny, short-lived meteors. Paul heaved a sigh, stifled a groan, bit his lip, and trudged on.

As he got nearer to the house, he suddenly became aware of the fact that two figures, that of a man and a woman, were standing at the bars of the barnyard. He recognized the white-clad form on the inside as his mother's. The tall, slender man with the broad hat and square shoulders was Jeff Warren—that would have been plain even if his voice in some indistinct utterance had not been heard. The blood of fury, goaded to the point of insanity, raged within the youth. He felt its close, hot pressure above his eyes, and a red veil fell before his sight. Hoag's recent words rang in his ears. Revenge, revenge! Yes, that was the only thing worth having. Paul bent lower. His gun trailed the ground like the gun of a pioneer hunter. He crept silently forward, keeping the fence between him and the pair, till he was close enough to overhear the colloquy. It was Jeff Warren's voice and his suave, daredevil tone.

“Oh, I know the boy hates me. I've seed it in the little scamp's face many a time. Rafe must 'a' put 'im up to it when his mind was so flighty; but we'll straighten him out between us when we git things runnin' smooth. He'll think I'm a rip-snortin' stepdaddy when I git through with 'im.”

The hot pressure on Paul's brain increased. Pausing in a corner of the fence, he grasped his gun in both hands and cocked it with tense, determined fingers. His father's dead face rose before him. It seemed to smile approvingly. Hoag's words came to him like the advice of an oracle. He strained his ears to hear what his mother was saying, but her low utterance failed to reach him. Jeff Warren was turning away, his broad hat gallantly swung toward the ground.

“Well, I'll see you ag'in 'fore long,” he said merrily. “I know how you feel, but all that will soon wear off. We kin wait a decent time, but I'm in the race, I tell you. I'll talk all them notions out o' your purty head.”

Paul saw his mother vanish in the dusk, and, merrily intoning the tune of a hymn, Warren came on toward Paul. On he Strode, still swinging his hat. Paul heard him softly chuckling.

“Halt, you dirty coward!” Paul cried, as he stepped in front of him, the gun leveled at the broad chest.

“What—what? Good God!” Warren gasped. “Put down that gun, you young fool! Drop it, I say, or I'll—”

Warren was about to spring forward as the only means of self-protection, but before he could do so there was a flash, a ringing report, a puff of smoke, and with a groan Warren bent forward, his hands on his breast. He swayed back and forth, groaning. He reeled, tottered sideways, made a strenuous effort to keep erect, then fell forward, gasping audibly, and lay still.

Paul lowered his gun, and for a moment stood looking at the fallen man. His blood was wildly beating in his heart and brain. There was a barking of dogs far and near. Glancing toward the house, he noticed the forms of his mother and aunt framed by the kitchen doorway, the firelight behind them.

“It may be somebody shootin' bats”—Amanda's voice held a distinct note of alarm—“but I was shore I heard somebody speak sharp-like just before the shot was fired. Let's run down thar an' look.”

They dropped out of sight. Paul heard the patter of their feet, knew they were coming, and, for no reason which he could fathom, he retreated in the direction from which he had come. As if in a flash he caught and held the idea that, having done his duty, he would turn himself over to an officer of the law, as he had read of men doing in similar circumstances.

He had gone only a few hundred yards when he heard the two women screaming loudly; and why he did so he could not have explained, but he quickened his gait into a slow, bewildered sort of trot, the gun still in his hands. Perhaps it was due to the thought that he wanted voluntarily to give himself up before any one should accuse him of trying to flee. He was nearing Hoag's barn, and thinking of making a short cut to the village across the fields, when a man suddenly burst from the thicket at the side of the road and faced him. It was Hoag himself.

“Hold thar!” he cried, staring through the dusk at Paul. “What's all that screamin' mean? I heard a gun go off, an' rememberin' that you—say, did you—Good God! What you comin' back this way for?”

“I've killed Jeff Warren,” Paul answered, calmly. “I'm goin' to Grayson to give myself up.”

“Good Lord, you don't say—why, why—” Hoag's voice trailed away into silence, silence broken only by the voices of the two women in the distance calling for help.

“Yes, I shot 'im—you know why; you yourself said—”

Hoag suddenly laid a trembling hand on Paul's arm. The boy had never seen his employer turn pale before, or show so much agitation. “Looky' here, you didn't go an'—an' do that because I—on account o' anything I said. Shorely you didn't—shorely you didn't! Come into the thicket, quick! Folks will be passin' here in a minute. Them fool women will rip the'r lungs out. Say, you didn't really kill 'im, did you—actually kill 'im?”

Paul avoided his eyes. “You go back there an' see if I didn't,” he said, doggedly.

Hoag stared incredulously for a moment, then, with a firm grip on Paul's arm, he drew him deeper into the thicket.

“Something's got to be done,” he panted. “If you give yourself up for trial they will worm out o' you that I said—that I was talkin' to you, an'—Looky' here, boy, do you know what this means? Are you plumb out o' your senses?”

“I don't care what it means,” Paul retorted. “I've put him out o' the way for good and all.”

“Good Lord, you are a cool un! Wait here; don't stir! I'll come back. I'll run down thar to make sure.”

Hoag moved excitedly toward the road. He had just reached it when a man came running past at full speed in the direction of the village. “Hold, hold!” Hoag cried. “What's wrong?”

The runner slackened his speed a little; but did not stop. It was Abe Langston.

“Somebody's shot Jeff Warren down thar by the fence. He's as dead as a door-nail. I'm goin' to send out the alarm an' git the sheriff.”

In a cloud of self-raised dust Langston dashed away. Hoag stood hesitating for a moment, then turned back to Paul, finding him seated on the decaying trunk of a fallen tree, the gun resting on his slender knees. Hoag stood before him.

“You've got to git out o' this,” he panted, excitedly. “You've done a thing that the court will hold you responsible for. I ain't sure you was justified nohow. The fellow was just in love, that's all. A jury will call it unprovoked, cold-blood, deliberate, what-not. You ain't in no fix to fight it, an' you'd be a plumb idiot to stay here an' let 'em lay hold of you.' The only sensible thing for you to do is to show a clean pair o' heels, an' git out for good an' all. You don't seem overly satisfied here with them women on your hands nohow, an' the world is big and wide. I don't want my name used—mind that. If you do git caught an' fetched back, I hope you'll have the decency not to lug me an' this advice in even under oath. I'm tryin' to help you. Make a bee-line through the mountains to North Carolina an' board the first train. Throw that gun down. Don't be caught red-handed; it would be a plumb give-away.”

“What's the use?” Paul shifted his feet, and raised his sullen eyes.

“Thar's a heap o' use,” Hoag returned, impatiently. “You may not think so now, but you will after you've laid in that dang dirty jail in town, an' been tuck to court to be gazed at by the public, with no money to pay fees with, no friends on hand, an' nothin' before you but to be hung by the neck till you are dead, dead, dead. Take my advice. Git away off some'r's in the world, change your name, burn yore bridges behind you, an' start life 'new all for yoreself without any load like the one you've always had like a millstone round your neck.”

Paul rose to his feet, rested the stock of his gun on the trunk of the tree; he looked off through the twilight wistfully.

“You really think that would be best?” he faltered.

“It certainly will, if you kin manage to git away,” Hoag said. “Why, if you stay here, you will be in a damn sight wuss fix than the skunk you shot. He's out o' his trouble, but if you stay here yours will just be beginnin'.”

“Well, I'll go,” Paul consented. “I can get away all right. I know the woods and mountains.”

“Well, throw your gun down behind that log an make off. Say, if they press you hard on your way through the country, an' you find yourself near the farms of Tad Barton, Press Talcot, Joe Thomas, or old man Jimmy Webb, say this to 'em—tell 'em I said—No, I won't give you no password. I haven't got the right to do it without due form. It's ag'in' the rules; but you tell either of 'em that I said put you out of sight, give you grub or a place to sleep, an' that I said pass you along to the railroad. Got any money? Here is five dollars. I owe you that much, anyway, and it's all I happen to have in my pocket. Now, you hit the grit.”

Paul took the money and indifferently thrust it into his pocket. Hoag held out his hand. “I don't want you to go away with the idea that I had anything much ag'in' the feller you shot; that's done away with now. We've had one or two little scraps, but they didn't amount to anything. Say”—Hoag pointed to the creek—“if I was you I'd wade along that watercourse for a mile or two. The sheriff might take a notion to put bloodhounds on your track, an' the stream will wash away the scent. Good-by. Make the best of it. I'd ask you to drop me a line, but that wouldn't be safe for me or you either. Cut this section clean out—it's been tough on you, anyway. You can make a livin'. You've got a great head on you for learnin'—I've heard plenty o' sensible folk say so. Good-by.” They parted. Hoag went deliberately toward the constantly growing group where Jeff Warren had fallen. He had almost reached it when he met Aunt Dilly, who had been anxiously inquiring for him. She was whimpering and wiping her eyes on her apron.

“Oh, Marse Hoag,” she cried, “I'se been searchin' fer you everwhar. Dey want you up at de house right off.”

“Want me? What's the matter?”

“I dunno, suh; but Miz Hoag drapped off ter sleep-like in 'er chair, en her ma cayn't wake 'er up. Cato done run fer de doctor. Suppen's wrong, suh, suppen powerful wrong. Hit don't look lak des er faintin' spell.”

Hoag stifled an oath of impatience, glanced at the silent group, hesitated a moment, and then turned homeward. At the gate he saw Mrs. Tilton waving her hands wildly in a signal for him to hurry.

“She's dead!” she sobbed. “She's growing cold.” Hoag passed through the gate which she held open.

“Keep the baby away,” he said. “There is no use lettin' 'im look at her. He's too young to—to see a thing like that.”