The cool air of the early morning, blowing down from the mountain, is refreshing and invigorating to Jack Wade, who is standing in the door of his cabin leaning against the facing leisurely, taking in with his eye the broad expanse of the valley before him.

He inhales deeply of the pure fresh Kentucky morning air, while his athletic frame quivers in the light of the rising sun. The eastern horizon was all aglow with the brightness shining through the flitting snow-white clouds. It was a beautiful picture, so he stood silent, drinking in the scenery of the surrounding country with great pleasure. Behind him, unknown to his waiting heart, stood a pure, sweet girl, gazing out through the deep mist of the morning, as if to penetrate the very depths to a distance where she might get one glimpse of the single man who had unconsciously awakened within her soul a new life, a new hope. A new being sprang up within her, her soul longed for the time when she could see him and hear his musical voice speaking to her inner life and vibrating to the deepest depths of her quivering young heart.

Wade thought of her often, but only as a newborn, unopened bud. He thought of her oftener than he felt he should, but he couldn't help that. Still, a flush of feeling came into his heart when he did think of her. What was it? What was this dark-eyed daughter of a tobacco planter to him that he should quit his pondering when the memory of her crossed his mind or when her crimson face rose like a vision before his eyes? She must be regarded as secondary. Other matters claimed his attention first, and should receive strict and careful consideration. But he could not resist. Temptation, ah, temptation! thou art the power which overcomes strong man. Wade threw the saddle on his horse, strapped his rifle on the saddle, and rode up the road toward the climbing sun, toward the towering mountain, intending to take a few hours in hunting, and casting over the views on the other side. When he reached Peter Judson's cabin he hesitated. "The attraction, the hoss, hit brung him."

Old Peter was stringing some new wire along the outer fence and did not notice Wade's approach; if he had noticed him he did not let on.

"Busy this morning, neighbor," said Wade, pulling up. Old Peter turned abruptly, spat out a great stream of "terbacker" juice and replied: "Ther durned old cow gits out too often. Gotter double ther wires. 'Light an' hitch, won't ye?"

Wade would, as he wished to become better acquainted with his nearest neighbor. He had called before, he said, but had found Mr. Judson gone out on business, and he was glad to find him at home on this beautiful morning. While Wade talked with Old Peter Judson, he could feel the power of those piercing dark eyes as they penetrated the window pane behind him. The vision was again before him. The bewitching smile, the great rows of pearly white teeth, the dimples in either cheek, he saw, though she sat somewhere in the dark recesses of that little old cabin. But this did not deter him. He spoke of the great prospect for another crop, while the old man leaned against a fence post and occasionally spit a stream of dark red tobacco juice.

Once he took deliberate aim at a young chick and missed him about a half inch. He would have drowned him had he hit the mark.

"Ye haint got chickens down ter yer shanty?" said the old man questioningly.

Wade had a few old hens and a rooster, he said. The hens were not laying,—they were not the laying sort,—but he hoped to raise a few chickens along just for his own pleasure, to get diversion from other duties. He spoke so kindly and firmly that Peter Judson thought he was going to like him, unless he took to different ways, unless he was "agin" the poor man, unless he "mout do something terrible." There was a chance that he was all right and there was a chance that he was all wrong. The "Wolf, Night-Watch," had discovered things that did not at all seem right, and until they were proved false or true an opinion would not be entertained. While one talked with him, there arose a doubt as to whether the Wolf, Night-Watch, might not be utterly mistaken. That would be determined later. For the present he was perfectly all right.

Wade was also making discoveries of which he thought his neighbors knew nothing. He was in the community, he told Judson, to aid and assist his neighbors, especially those who showed an inclination to assist him and a friendliness toward him. He had sufficient funds, he said, to enable him to go through life easily, and therefore his sole aim was not to make money, but to regain lost health. Old Peter opened wide his eyes, making occasional replies.

Though thoroughly uneducated, Peter Judson was no fool by any means, and he had a mathematical way of his own to figure out problems which confronted him in every-day life. He was plain, but staunch, was glad to know his neighbor, and hoped he would call often. They were immediate neighbors, he said, and should be friends: Peter even invited Wade to come back and take dinner, and Wade accepted, pleased with the opportunity that should lead him into the family of which he desired to learn more. He wanted to know their home life, their inmost thoughts, and he therefore gladly accepted the kind invitation to lunch. Wade turned to go, but some supernatural power impelled him to hesitate, and that hesitation brought forth her whom he of all people most desired to see. Nora, seeing that the conversation between her father and the newcomer was about completed, stepped out, with flushed face and throbbing heart, to thank him for the book which she said she had read and enjoyed.

"I have others," he said. "I shall bring another to you soon."

"Thank ye. Are ye goin' a-huntin' fer game, er what?"

"For game."

"I can show you where ye can git lots of birds."

"That she kin," said Peter. "I most forgot. Jest take mine an' Tom's guns an' leave yer rifle here, an' that gal'll show ye how ter hunt in this kintry. She knows ther haunts o' every bird an' every squirrel in the mountain."

This arrangement was very agreeable to Wade, who accepted with beaming pleasure, leaving his rifle while he took a shotgun, as suggested by Nora Judson's father. Wade desired to saddle a horse for Nora, but she protested stoutly, saying that she could throw a saddle on a horse quicker than he could, which he readily agreed was true. Together and happily they rode toward the mountain, with light hearts—they were both young—conversing as freely as if they had been lifelong acquaintances. Over the rugged mountain side they rode, sometimes down the little ravines or nitches, sometimes beside the rough boulders, always side by side, talking, laughing, joking, until they reached a spot where they were to hitch the horses and traverse farther in on foot. The sweet wild mountain flowers waving in the breeze nodded their little dew-dipped golden heads in the light of the summer sun as they passed them by.

Wade dreamed of their beauty and fragrance as they peeped up from their rocky beds with a look of entire approval and recognition. He stopped once to pluck a flower, which he gave to Nora, and which she accepted blushing. This one simple act carried to her heart, inexperienced as it was in the ways of the world, greater significance than Wade had meant. He was so thoroughly unacquainted with the customs of these mountain people, and didn't know. She was silent for a brief spell,—she was always very silent when thinking,—then as if impelled by the spirits of the air she thanked him in her simple, innocent way, while her head dropped until her chin rested on her bosom.

"I read your book through," she said, breaking the silence, "and hit—it has done me so much good."

"Tell me about it." They had reached an open grassy spot bordered by thick brush and tall trees. "Sit here while you tell me something from your heart."

Wade had not failed to notice that she often corrected herself in speech at times when she deliberated.

"And the birds?" she asked, looking toward the blue sky with a far-off expression.

"Never mind them,"—hastily. "We shall get all the birds we shall want to take home later. Now, let us have one good talk together out here in the open, on the side of this lovely mountain, where none save God shall see us or hear us, where we can open our hearts to each other."

She sat down in a manner not unbecoming anywhere, and he sat opposite her.

"It must be mighty lonely fer ye all by yerself—yourself," she said.

"It is, quite, just now; but I shall have company soon."

She looked up sharply, inquiringly. "When and who?" painfully.

"Can't just tell when, but sometime in the near future."

She was still looking at him questioningly.

"I'm going to have a family on the Redmond farm," he continued; "am building there now."

She felt relieved.

"Haint ye got a sweetheart back yonder in the big city?" she asked.

He looked into her eyes, but she cunningly evaded the stare.

"Won't you be my sweetheart?" he asked, smiling. He saw the crimson creep to her face and she lowered her head.

"Ye didn't answer my question," she said softly, head still drooping.

"I have not. I have no sweetheart anywhere. Women never cared for me"—sorrowfully.

The little brown poppies waved their heads in wild delight, while the chirping birds sang songs of rejoicing from the treetops, as they looked upon this peculiar mountain scene.

"What did ye come into this country for?" she asked abruptly.

He smiled.

"You don't believe me. If I should say I came here to rid the country of the terrible band of destructive Nightriders, would you believe it?"

She started violently.

"Don't say that," she said; "don't ye do it."

"Why not? If I tell you I am here for my health, you don't believe that. Why not say something equally as ridiculous?"

"Nobody believes ye come here for your health, an' everybody might believe ye had an idea ye could rid the country of Nightriders. They're ready to believe anything of a newcomer. They think he's a spy, an' they mout think anything that they take a notion to think. My warnin' to ye is that ye better not say that, ye better take it back as a joke right now."

"You wouldn't tell on me, would you?"

"Ye better take it back."

"I won't take anything back," he said firmly, but smiling.

"Ye frighten me, Jack."

She spoke with all the tenderness of her heart.

"I don't mean to do that. I'm very docile, I'm just opening my life to you because I—I think I like you and——"

"Ye needn't," she said, blushing. "I know what ye would say. Dad don't like for the gentlemen to talk to me that away."

"Dad is far away just now, and if I say I like you, Nora, it is because I do, and your Dad can know that much if he so desires. I do not mean to deceive him, nor would I deceive you for all the world and this big mountain thrown in." He peered down into those great dark eyes, which met his gaze with unflinching, gleaming admiration. "It's so pleasant here," he added.

"Ain't it pleasant in the big city?" she asked doubtfully.

The outer world now held a certain charm which to her had not been known before.

"Not so pleasant as it is here on the mountain side," he replied. "Listen, Nora. In the city you cannot hear the rippling waters as they dance down the rocky pathway over the hill to the stream beyond. You cannot listen to the song of the wild morning bird as he cries out in his great freedom from his lofty perch in yonder tree top; you cannot inhale the pure fresh air as it glides gently over the brushy way; you cannot hear the rustling of the dry leaves as you do here, therefore, it is not so pleasant in the big city."

"Ye gets used to that here," she said.

"You get used to the clanging bells, to the snorting whistles, and to the dusty, smoky atmosphere in the city, too, but there is still a difference. There you see people at all hours of the day and night busily rushing to and fro, this way and that, rushing, pushing, jamming, nothing more."

"I think I would like that for a while," she said.

"No, you wouldn't. Not long. It is not near so pleasant there as it is here, and by your side." He slipped his arm around her waist. She made no effort to disengage it. "It's so ple——"

"What's that?" she said, startled. A rifle shot, followed by a wild yell, broke the peaceful stillness of the mountain air. She leaned her head far over and listened. "That's Al Thompson," she cried. "Let's be a-goin'. When he's that away I don't want to meet him. He's dangerous." She broke from his grasp and stood erect, listening.

"I have no fear of Al Thompson, nor any other man," he said, rising. "Where this arm falls power falls with it. I am monarch of the hill just now."

He was dramatic, and she admired his great physique and brave words.

"Ye don't know Al," she said. "He's been drinkin', an' is not accountable for his actions, so we'd better be a-gittin'."

"If you have no confidence in my strength," he said angrily, "we shall go."

She felt a little hurt.

"I didn't mean to," she said slowly, "but I want you to go so's you'll be safe."

They started off, but before they cleared the opening that hideous yell broke the otherwise dead silence, and Al Thompson darted through the thicket like a madman, brandishing his pistol over his head, and with a roar of anger, cried out:

"I've got ye now, durn ye', an' ye'll never see daylight agin. Hit ther road, gal, while I lay him out like a dog."

Al was coming nearer and nearer as he spoke. Wade did not flinch, but stood like a man. Nora stepped in front of him to protect him from the onslaught, but she was like a twig in the hands of that maddened giant. He caught her by the shoulder and cast her aside as though she had been chaff before a strong wind. However, he did not reckon on the powerful agility of his athletic antagonist, who, before the wild man knew what had happened, knocked the pistol from his maniacal grasp. One of Wade's fists then shot out and struck Thompson squarely on the nose. He went down, grunting under the smart of pain, while Wade stood over him like a heroic victor, not deigning to strike his enemy while he was down. Nora's admiration for Jack's daring and skill grew stronger as she saw him standing there over the prostrate form of his victim, whom he could have killed had he chosen to do so.

"What ye goin' ter do with me since you got me down?" asked Al doggedly, not in the least defiantly.

"I'm going to let you get up so I can have the great pleasure of knocking you down again," Wade replied, with flushed face and animated voice.

Thompson saw the very streaks of fire as they shot from Jack Wade's eyes, and he made no effort to rise. He just looked sullenly, first at Wade, then at the girl.

"Get up, quick, you coward!" exclaimed Wade warmly.

"I'm comfortable 'nough here," replied Thompson. "If I get up ye might keep your word an' lay me out again."

Jack Wade was not fully acquainted with the mountain laws, the laws as regarded between man and man, or man and his sworn enemy. No other law counted for anything with the mountaineers. If any one of those fellows had got him in the same position, under similar circumstances, they would not have left enough of him to rise from the earth, in fact, there would not have been enough of him for his friends to gather up with a shovel, so utterly thorough would have been the destruction of his tenement of clay.

Thompson, seeing that he was safe from further attack, contented himself by saying, "I'll git ye yet."

"Come," said Wade, taking Nora by the arm, "let us now be going. Forgive me for such unseemly conduct in your presence."

The girl did not seem to understand. Such as she had just seen she had been accustomed to always, ever since she first remembered anything that was going on about her. Never before had she heard an apology when one man knocked another down.

"Ye couldn't help it," she said. After a few moments silence she continued, "He'll kill ye shore, ef ye don't keep away from him."

"No, he won't, Nora. He won't attempt it again. If he does, well—that's something else. I presume he is a Rider, is he not?" She did not reply. "Come, Nora," said Wade pleadingly; "don't be reticent. Tell me all you can, being consistent, just as I have told you everything—all the contents of my heart to-day."

She could not resist the appeal. Tears were gathering in her eyes; they were the first Wade had seen in any eyes for a long time, and his own heart was touched. She opened her innocent life before him and told him all she knew. The women folks, however, did not know nearly so much as they often prided themselves as knowing. She believed he ought to know, more especially since the incident with Al Thompson, because it would be a sort of protection to him. He would know what to look for and how to bear himself.

"They aint a-goin' ter hurt ye, ef I can help ye," she said, sobbingly.

He understood her feelings perfectly well, and determined there on the wild mountainside, in the presence of the rugged hills and within sound of the running waters, to protect and aid this unopened wild flower of the mountain so long as he had power to do so, so long as this power lasted—so long as he had breath in his lungs.

This vow he faithfully kept. Men do things very often during life for which they are very sorry, do things which, in more conservative moments, bring on pangs of regret; but Jack Wade felt not the least regret because he had knocked down Al Thompson. He did not regret that act, but a tinge of sorrow and shame ran through his soul as he looked upon the crimson face of his gentle companion. The advantage he had taken in her moment of weakness would, no doubt, stand him well in fulfilling the purpose for which he had quit a life of plenty,—a life of sociality, and had come to the lonesome hills to live in a cabin all alone to carry out. The burden of it all was burning his own soul and gnawing at the very vitals of the life within him. He was a man through and through, a man who could have gained the topmost heights of the most elevated, elaborate society, but he had sought instead the quiet life of the farmer, a life alone in a cabin away toward the hills of Kentucky, far from civilization. Beside him rode in perfect silence, broken only by the sound of the horses' feet falling upon the dirt, a child of the wilds, whose own heart burned her bosom, that heart which had in an unguarded moment unloaded all that was most sacred to her and to her own people, all that had been held dear to one who had been taught in only one way. She felt sorrowful, but that same power which bound her when Jack Wade was away kept her silent when he was near. The rocks of the rugged mountain ridge pointed to her as she passed, the little yellow wild flowers bowed their sweet heads in shame when her skirts touched them. She would not look at them, their beauty had in a moment flown. She would not look over the wild mountain scenery; its picturesqueness had departed. A dead shade rested over everything. She would not even glance up at the strong man at her side for fear his powerful gaze might pierce her heart as an arrow shot out from a strong arm. But why all this sorrow? He knew, he understood, and was silent. He looked toward her in silent admiration, and his heart smiled, but his lips moved not. To assure her was his thought, was the only motive of his heart, but he could wait until a calmer moment. The waters of life were troubled now, there was a storm upon the quiet sea, whose ruffled, wind-tossed waves were rolling high, and he must wait.

Behind them was the very hound of the devil, cursing and swearing uproariously. Every curse was an avowed vengeance, every breath foretold the death of someone. The murderous black eyes of the mountain wolf gazed on, the steel-like paws of the forest lion tore the earth where he lay, the savage instinct of an untamed Indian of primeval days filled his blood. The heart of the most ferocious beast was encased within his bosom, and vengeance, sweet vengeance, was his insistent cry. He rose from the earth where Jack Wade had laid him with that powerful blow of his heavy fist, snorted like a hyena, shook his fist tragically after Wade and Nora, then crouched as a panther when about to spring upon an unsuspecting victim or an awaiting foe, leaped high into the air, and, yelling like a Comanche on the war-path, darted like a frightened hare down the mountain side in the direction whence he came, spitting out fire and brimstone as he ran.

"She's mine, mine!" he shouted, "an' ye needn't think she hain't."

Down the other side of the mountain now rode two beings who seemed farther apart than before they knew each other, yet whose hearts beat as one, and who were in reality closer together than any other two human beings on the great earth.

When Al Thompson opened his lungs and sent forth that unearthly yell which vibrated through the forest down in the valley, the girl caught hold of Wade's arm. She quivered, he felt the emotion playing over her being, and caught the soft hand in his own.

"Have no fear whatever," he said reassuringly. "He is drunk. When he comes out from under the spell once more, he will think nothing of this affair."

"Ye don't know him, Jack," she replied. "I warn ye agin', cause——" She stopped.

"Because what, child?" he questioned, noting her hesitation. "Speak what is in your heart."

"Because," she continued falteringly, "I don't want ye ter get hurt."

He smiled encouragingly.

"He won't hurt me, but I'll keep a close watch for your sake. If he gives me further trouble I'll put him in jail down in the village."

"Huh! that jail won't hold him; hit ain't never held a——one of these mountain fellers yet. That won't do; ye must hold him some other way."

"All right, I'll hold him some way, sure. I want you to feel satisfied that I am able to do it."

As they were nearing the house they saw old Peter Judson standing at the gate awaiting their return.

"I've enjoyed this trip with you, Jack," she whispered softly.

"No more than I have enjoyed it with you," he replied feelingly.

"And ther birds——"

"Whar's yer game?" shouted Peter as they rode up, both flushing red. "An' fer the land sake," continued Peter, "what makes ye look so durn funny 'bout ther eyes an' face? What in ther world's got hold of ye; air ye sick, gal?"

She was not very ill, she said. Indeed, she had never felt better physically, but——

The old man was fumbling through the saddle-bags in search of birds or other game. Wade could not suppress a smile because of the comical expression upon the face of the disappointed old man.

"This is ther durndest hunt I ever heerd 'bout in these hills," said Peter. "A half-day out, an' no game."

"We haven't fired a gun," replied Wade, "therefore have no game." The old man looked at Wade, then at his daughter. His disappointed expression was at once superseded by one of anxiety. Indeed, he looked very sorrowful. "But ye fired one good shot," he said sternly. "An ef ye intend ter be foolin', I want ter warn ye ter be a-lookin' out. Fun shots don't go in this hyar kintry." He appeared to be greatly agitated now, but when he learned the real circumstances he softened, and his eyes gave forth a tender expression. "Git down," he said, "chuck is put nigh ready. I'll put yer hoss up'n feed him, an' we'll have a old time talk 'bout everything, from ther days o' Goliath till ther days o' corn-huskin',—'bout which ye know mighty little, I reckon, ef I don't miss my guess a long way, by lookin' at ye."

Old Peter refrained from remarking just at this time anything touching upon the actions of Al Thompson, but many strange and peculiar thoughts were romping pell-mell through his heavy brain.