The boy stood about ten feet away, near a pot-bellied wood stove behind which he probably had been hiding when Jeff came in. His clothing was rumpled, but at the same time it was fairly new and not the faded hand-me-downs that were to be expected on ten-year-olds around Smithville. His face and hands were dirty, and straight black hair that had once been well-groomed tumbled all over his head.

Jeff knew a surge of pity. Never, in hill or any other country, should a ten-year-old stand so. It was not right that any youngster's eyes should spark with such unbridled fury, or that any child should have the complete willingness to kill that was so evident in this one. At the same time, Jeff felt something else. The youngster had control of himself and the shotgun did not waver. But taut lips seemed ready to tremble and tears lingered behind angry eyes.

It was as though the boy had taken up burdens which were far too heavy, but which he was determined to carry, even while he longed for a friendly arm to help him and a sympathetic ear to which he might tell his story. And somehow, in spite of his anger, quality was evident within him.

Jeff said gently, "Put your gun down, son."

"Tell me what you're doing here! With my pop's dog!"

Jeff was astounded. "Your pop's dog?"

"That's him! That's Buster!"

Hearing the name, Pal flattened both ears and wagged his tail. He looked at the boy without going near him. Jeff tried to collect his thoughts.

"I found him a long ways from here. Clear over beyond Cressman."

Uncertainty stole some of the boy's fury. "You—you did?"

"That's right."

"Who are you?"

"My name's Jeff Tarrant and I'm a peddler. Put your gun down."

"Well—" He lowered the shotgun. Two tears broke from his eyes and he shook them off with an angry whirl of his head. Jeff extended his hand.

"Maybe you'd better let me have the gun."

"It—it isn't loaded. I didn't have any money to buy shells!"

Jeff said gently, "Taking a bit of a chance, weren't you? What if you'd pulled it on someone with a gun that was loaded?"

"I—I don't know."

"This is really your dad's dog?"

"I ought to know him."

"He doesn't seem especially happy to see you."

"I—I only saw him twice. Last time a year ago. But it's my pop's!"

"Who are you, son?"

"Dan Blazer."

"And where is your pop?"

"Dead!" Dan said fiercely. "Shot by those—Whitneys!"

He whirled so that his back was to Jeff, put both grimy hands to his eyes, and shook with sobs. Pal looked worried. Jeff strode swiftly across the floor, knelt beside the sobbing youngster, gathered him up, and sat with him on a homemade wooden chair whose back and seat were of laced buckskin. Laying his head on Jeff's shoulder, Dan sobbed unrestrainedly. Then he wriggled, turned away quickly so that Jeff could not see his face, and slid to the floor. He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief that was almost as dirty as his face. When he turned again to Jeff, he was calmer.

"Cry baby!" he accused himself. "Big cry baby!"

"Come here, Dan," Jeff said gently.

"What do you want?"

"To talk to you, and I've seen men cry over a whole lot less."

"Really?" The thought seemed a reassuring one.

"Really. Where is your mother?"

"She died when I was—When I was just a child." He spoke quietly. His mother had died so long ago that all pangs were gone.

"I see. What were you doing when these—uh—when these Whitneys shot your pop?"

"I was in Ackerton." Dan named the nearest city.

Again Jeff was surprised. "What were you doing there?"

"Pop sent me to Jackson School there. Said he was a hill man but he didn't want me to be one. He said there were better things."

"Hm-m. How did you get here?"

"Walked," Dan answered matter-of-factly.

"Didn't anyone try to stop you?"

"A policeman did before I was out of Ackerton. I got away, and after that I walked at night."

"Do you have any relatives?"

"I'm the only one left in the Blazer family and I aim to kill every danged Whitney! That way I'll be sure to get the one who got Pop!"

Jeff said drily, "Nothing like being thorough. You're sure the Whitneys did get your pop?"

"They're the ones he fought most with."

"But he fought with others too?"

"Well, yes."

"Hadn't we better do a bit of thinking before we shoot all the Whitneys?"

"We? Why do you want to mix in?"

"I've got your pop's dog, haven't I? That gives me the right, doesn't it?"

Dan looked doubtfully at Jeff. "Do you really think so?"

"Certainly I think so, but let's not go off half-cocked. This is going to take a bit of figuring. We can't just wander around leaving corpses all over the woods."

"What would you do?"

"Find who really shot your pop and get him."

"I never thought of that," Dan admitted.

"Let's talk about it over a good meal. That sound all right?"

"Great but—I'm down to corn meal mush."

"Tonight we'll have something else," Jeff decided. "I was just going in to Smithville to buy grub. Do you like pork chops?"

"Oh, boy!" Dan licked his lips. "But why should you buy me anything?"

"If we're partners," Jeff said firmly, "we share and share alike. You can understand that. We're already sharing the cabin."

Confidence and hope warmed Dan's eyes. He smiled, and Jeff reflected that that was the way he should always look.

"Uh—Jeff."

"What's up?"

"Do you think you could bring some shells for this shotgun?"

"On one condition. The gun isn't shot at anything, or anybody, unless both of us know about it."

"All right," Dan agreed.

Pal went to the door with him. Jeff shoved the dog back, shut the door, and struck into the gathering twilight. He shook a bewildered head.

Was it a year ago, or only a few days, that he had been the footloose owner-manager-working force of Tarrant Enterprises, Ltd.? Why was he burdened now with a dog that few other people wanted and a boy that nobody wanted very much? Why hadn't he left both where he found them and accepted just his own responsibilities? He shook his head again and murmured to himself, "Darn fool! Tarrant, of all the pinheaded things you've ever done, these take the hand-polished railroad spike!"

At the same time he knew that he couldn't have done otherwise. The dog had helped him, therefore the dog must not be abandoned. Nor could Jeff simply leave Dan to any fate that awaited him. The only man left in the Blazer family, Dan had walked all the way from Ackerton—more than a hundred miles—to avenge his father. He intended to make sure he did it by shooting all the Whitneys, and he would die if he raised the gun to the first one. It was a staggering situation and how should he, Jeff, solve it?

Again Jeff gave himself over to the idea that first things must be first and walked into Smithville.

It was a small town, with perhaps four hundred inhabitants, and as nearly as there could be such a thing, it was a place where the outer world intruded on the hills. Smithville was about half-civilized. The streets were dirt and rutted, but instead of the log houses in which hill families abode, the dwellings here were frame. The Smithville Inn was largely a place for those who wished merriment in its louder forms, and there was one store. Wagons piled high with logs offered mute testimony as to the way the town's residents earned a livelihood but there were no horses to be seen. Doubtless, with night approaching, the teamsters had stabled their draft animals.

Jeff halted in front of the store, a rather large building whose front end consisted of numerous small panes of glass inserted in wooden frames. There was the legend "Abel Tarkman, General Store," and beneath it was printed, "Post Office Too."

Knowing before he did so what he would find, Jeff entered. Isolated stores such as this one catered to all the wants of many people. As a result, they had to stock a little bit of everything that was practical, and Abel Tarkman's store was no exception. Counters stretched its full length. Pails, straps, lanterns and bits of harness, were suspended from rafter beams. There was a rack of hoes, rakes, spades and other garden tools, but no plows or harrows; this was not a farm community. Jeff saw a shelf of drugs, a vast assortment of chewing and smoking tobaccos, a whole rack of vari-calibered firearms and ammunition, a food counter, a dry goods counter, and toward the back—a small cubby hole of unpainted lumber that was labeled "Post Office."

Two other people, a stocky man with a badge, and a woman, were in the store. Jeff stood aside while the proprietor, evidently Abel Tarkman himself, served the woman. A small, quiet man with an inoffensive manner, he wrapped the woman's purchases and looked inquiringly at Jeff.

"Four pounds of pork chops," Jeff said.

He ordered a dozen eggs, two loaves of bread, a three-pound slab of bacon, two quarts of milk, a pound of coffee, a peck of potatoes, and mindful of the youngster at the cabin, a head of lettuce and a bunch of carrots. To these purchases he added a broom, four panes of glass to replace those broken out of the cabin, putty with which to hold them, a lantern, a gallon of kerosene, and finally, "A half dozen eight gauge shotgun shells."

"I've nothing but number fours in eight gauge."

"They'll do and I want to stick them in my pocket."

Abel Tarkman looked doubtfully at the rest. "It's a lot to carry."

"Put it in gunny sacks. I'll manage."

Tarkman reached beneath the counter for a gunny sack and said amiably, "Fishing?"

"Loafing," Jeff answered. "Nothing strenuous."

"Staying long?"

"I don't know."

"Where you staying?"

"Blazer's cabin."

Abel Tarkman's jaw tautened and he said no more. Jeff frowned. It was as though something cold had crept between them, and why should the mention of Blazer bring that about? Without speaking any more, the storekeeper totaled Jeff's bill on a piece of brown wrapping paper and Jeff paid in cash. Ordinarily he'd have tried to barter, but, though the pack was full, he still had ideas about trading with the hill people.

Shouldering two half-filled gunny sacks, Jeff left the store. The sun had set, but enough light remained so that he could see. Between two far-spaced houses, and a sufficient distance from the store, Jeff took the six shotgun shells from one pocket and a knife from another. Carefully he pried the wadding from each shell and poured the shot out. Just as carefully replacing the shot with tightly-rolled bits of paper that he tore from his packages, he re-assembled the shells. Not forgotten was the fury of which Dan was capable. He had promised Jeff that he'd do no shooting on impulse, but Jeff wanted no accidents should Dan encounter a Whitney when he had the shotgun in his hands.

Jeff was reassembling the last shell when, his badge shining in the day's last light, the man he'd seen in the store came to and paused beside him.

"Howdy."

"Howdy."

"My name's Ellis," the constable said. "Bill Ellis and I'm constable here."

"Jeff Tarrant," Jeff extended his hand. They shook and Bill Ellis asked, "You said you're staying at Blazer's cabin?"

"That's right."

"See anything of a youngster thereabouts?"

"You mean Dan Blazer? Yes, he's there."

"Then I guess I'd better walk out with you and pick him up. Poor little tad's all alone in the world."

"No, he isn't. I'm taking care of him."

Bill Ellis was suspicious. "Since when?"

Jeff managed to sound more than a little astonished. "Didn't he tell you?"

"All he did was walk through Smithville yesterday with a little sack over his shoulder and a shotgun big's a cannon in his arm. All he said was that he would meet somebody at the cabin. I waited this long to see if he really would."

Jeff gave thanks for this bit of coincidence. "I met him at the cabin and he's all right. He's getting everything a youngster should have, though of course if your official duties call for so doing, you may take him. Naturally, I'll have to go with him and bring him right back, so there may be a bit of trouble. You were going to take him to an orphanage, weren't you?"

"Where else?"

"Ah, yes," Jeff agreed. "Where else? Splendid place, an orphanage. Ideal for those with no one to whom they might turn."

"I got a letter from some school in Ackerton. Said the kid left there right after his dad's funeral and hasn't been seen since. Said they thought he'd come here and I should be on the watch for him."

"An error," Jeff murmured. "Why don't you write to the school?"

"Maybe I'd better."

"Do that," Jeff urged. "How long does it take a letter to get to Ackerton and a reply back here?"

"About a week."

Jeff made up his mind to visit Ackerton before the week was out—and maybe Bill Ellis needn't send his letter.

"I'm going to Ackerton," Jeff said. "I'll bring written confirmation from the school if you want it."

"Well, if you're going there—"

"Let's leave it that way," Jeff said quickly. "If you care to check in the meanwhile, you can ask Dan. Who killed his father, anyway?"

"If I knew, he'd be in jail."

"Haven't you any ideas?"

"Sure I have. It's one of maybe twenty-five or thirty people."

"Have you questioned them?"

"How well are you acquainted around here?"

"I just got in."

"That explains it then."

"Explains what?"

"Your not knowing why I haven't questioned twenty-five or thirty people. Let me tell—"

Bill Ellis spoke at length of those who lived in Smithville and those who abode in the mountains surrounding it. The town dwellers, with few exceptions, were industrious people who were glad to work for the lumber company and to accept a weekly pay check. They seldom caused trouble.

Those residing in the hills were a different breed. They worked when they felt like it, which was not often, and few of them could bear the yoke of a steady job for more than three weeks at a time. They did for themselves and took their living from the wilderness. Of late years, with hunters and fishermen finding their way into the hills, guiding them had become a good source of income. But the only reason the hill people were willing to guide was because they usually spent all their time hunting or fishing anyway. They made their own laws, lived by their own code, and united only when outside forces threatened any part of their way of life.

When they fought, they fought hard and often for little reason. For many years a feud, with the Whitneys on one side and the Paynters on the other, had raged. It had started, of all things, over a muskrat stolen from Jed Paynter's trap. His own judge, jury, and executioner, Jed had shot Enos Whitney. Two days later Jed was found with a bullet in his head and, though everybody knew one of the Whitneys had shot him, nobody had ever proven it. Finally, with four Paynters and two Whitneys dead, the remainder of the Paynters left the hills. No officer had ever proven anything. One who'd gone into the hills had simply disappeared.

Bill Ellis knew only that someone had shot Johnny Blazer. But who? Johnny had done well trapping, hunting medicinal roots, and guiding and boarding hunters and fishermen. There was not a man in the hills who wouldn't have liked what Johnny had and not a man who wouldn't have quarreled with him about it. But to go into the hills with wholesale accusations would do nothing except rouse fury. Accusing, or even suspecting, whoever had not shot Johnny would be insult of the deadliest sort and inevitably bring on shooting.

Far from being interested in local quarrels, the outside world seldom even heard of them and little help could be expected from anyone. If Bill Ellis knew who had shot Johnny, he would go get him. But he had to know and had to have indisputable proof before he moved. He'd already done everything he could and was no nearer a solution than he had been two months ago.

Jeff listened intently, and realized that he was hearing the truth. If it was more extreme than what he already knew about mountain dwellers, Smithville was more isolated than any other place he had ever visited. Jeff thought of the youngster in the cabin. Dan Blazer had attended a city school, but his were hill blood and hill traditions. He had asked no one to help him avenge his father, but vengeance was a point of honor.

Jeff gritted his teeth. Dan was a child. It would be the essence of simplicity, using force if necessary, to place him in an orphanage or make him go back to school. But it would solve nothing. A boy now, Dan would be a man. When he was, he'd be back here in the hills. There would be no forgetting.

"Where was Johnny found?" Jeff asked.

"Between here and his cabin. If you noticed a big sycamore right beside the road, he was lying against the trunk."

"Who found him?"

"Couple of fellows from Ackerton. They were fishing back in the mountains and they brought Johnny here. Mike Severance, he does first aid work for the lumber company, patched him up and they took him to Delview. He died in the hospital there. Bullet went right through him."

"Where is he buried?"

"In Delview." Bill Ellis narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"

"A peddler," Jeff answered honestly. "I thought I could do some business here."

"You will, too. Now tell me straight why that kid came back."

"I told you. He's with me."

"We'll leave it that way," the constable promised, "at least until you bring word from Ackerton. But if you have any ideas except peddling, you'd better get some shells that are loaded with something besides paper wads."

"I'll think about it."

Bill Ellis guessed, "The kid toted the gun. Does he want the shells?"

"That's about it."

"You aim to watch him?"

"Why do you think I'm giving him blanks?"

"Why do you bother with him?"

"I'm an orphan myself. I could have used somebody to look after me when I was ten years old."

"For pete's sake, be careful!"

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You know where to find me if you need advice," Bill Ellis promised. "But if you start any half-baked ruckus, you finish it. I've a wife and two kids to think about. Well, maybe I'll be seeing you."

Pocketing the shells and shouldering the gunny sacks, Jeff walked swiftly back up the road. He halted when he came to the big sycamore. It was a monstrous tree that shaded the road and murmured gently as the evening breeze danced through its branches. There was nothing whatever to show that a man had died violently beside it. But a man had died here, and Jeff looked quizzically at the tree. If it could talk, it probably could tell who had killed Johnny Blazer.

He left the tree and hurried along. Trees did not talk and—Jeff was deep in thought until he came to the cabin. There he brushed his frowns away and forced a sparkle back into his eyes. Dan was a ticklish problem, and like all such, he had to be handled delicately. There must not be even one wrong move. Jeff burst into the cabin with a cheerful, "Poke the fire up, Dan! There's pork chops for supper!"