Dining at the home of a farmer was quite a new and novel experience to Wade, as there was no similarity to dining in a fashionable restaurant on a fashionable street in a large city. This was an experience in his life that he often thought of afterward. At one end of the table sat Peter Judson, to his right sat Mrs. Judson. In one corner of the stuffy little cabin dining-room sat a gray old cat on its haunches, appearing in every respect to be quite angry because it had been made to wait until the second table when it had been accustomed to eating with the family. Wade watched the cat, for it very often "licked its chops." Beside him lay Rover, the furry-headed dog, Nora's pet.

Jack was just as awkward at that table as the girl would have been had she been sitting down at a table in the greatest hotel in New York City. His manners and table etiquette were so entirely different that his actions did not seem at all right or natural. He sat like a boy who has been allowed to eat at the first table when his father had company. When Nora asked if he wouldn't take a piece of the "sow's belly," and he replied, "Thank you, I wouldn't choose any," she still held the dish before him until he took a slice. He sipped his coffee daintily, as a girl at an evening tea, holding the cup by the handle, while his little finger was extended high, and the girl gave him a cup-towel—"so's ther cup wouldn't burn his fingers" when he was drinking his coffee. He cut the meat off his chicken bone with his knife and put it into his mouth with his fork, causing the girl to blush because he was acting so ridiculous before her Dad and Mam, when she had really expected so much of him at this crucial time.

Old Peter would take about half his coffee at one gulp—this was more natural—making a noise like unto a sawmill when it is thoroughly busy. Then he would wipe his mouth on his shirt sleeve and take the coffee off his mustache with a sizzing noise. The climax to this long-to-be-remembered meal came when Wade put his knife and fork in his plate and picked up the scraps of bread and chicken bones and put them carefully alongside the knife and fork. Being unable to understand such strange conduct, Nora stepped behind Jack and hid her face in a dish towel. We do not know just what she was doing behind the towel, but presume she "stole a sweet smile," as her face was very red when she finally came out of hiding.

They got through the meal, however, after a great length of time had elapsed, for they conversed about every thing, crops especially and folks in the city in general. Tom was off toward the village purchasing supplies and would not return, likely, until late in the afternoon, so Wade must content himself with listening to Peter Judson for at least a half-day. This he did, and he listened with growing interest. The old man knew of things that had happened away back yonder 'afore the war, and he knew about things that would happen at some future date. He had lived through one generation of feuds and thought "thar mout be tough times ahead fer some folks as he know'd of now, an' they hain't fer away, nuther," he said meaningly. "Why, jest let me tell you somethin', Wade," said old Peter, bending over and shaking his finger at the latter. "Way back yonder somewhar in the eighteens we had some mouty lot of trouble, that we did. Them was ther days when ther white caps or somethin' done things, and I hain't fergot it nuther, an' what's more, I hain't never a-goin ter fergit. I hain't that sort—ther fergit'n kind. An' ye'll find that out 'afore ye air hyar in this kintry much longer. Ef a man treats Peter Judson all right, he's a-goin' ter git treated all right back again. Ef he treats me mean, why, he's gotter look out fer his head, that's all. I kin remember onct away back yonder—I was on t'other side then—an' was as peaceful a man as lived, when I was a plowin' in my field an' up comes a feller as fast as he could ride a hoss, an' says, sayse: 'Peter Judson, yer gotter git out o' this kintry, an' that putty quick. Ef yer don't, yer neck'll be stretched.' 'Well, I won't,' says I, 'not till I git good'n ready, an' ef you ner anybody else thinks as how they kin make me git out afore I want to, let's see ther color o' his hair. An' I takes ther lines from my shoulders an' drops 'em down over ther plow handle an' squares myself, thinkin' maybe he'd want some of it right then an' thar. But no, what'd he do? He up an' put spurs to his hoss an' digs out down ther road lip-i-ty-clip, an' I seed nuthin' o' him no more."

The old man paused to let out a great stream of tobacco juice.

Wade threw his left leg over his right knee by way of change, and asked, "Was there any special reason, Mr. Judson, that this man should have requested you to leave the country?"

"None. None 'tall, but I left."

"Oh, you did?"

"Yes, siree. I left putty quick after a while. You see, I hain't told you all of it yet. Them durn fellers come back one night, but I gits wind of it somehow, an' sends ther family away an' takes everything out an' puts ther stock in ther pasture,—nuthin's never hid from Peter Judson,—an' I lays out in ther bushes in a dark spot an' waits patiently. Long 'bout a little after midnight here they comes, 'bout a half-dozen strong, an' shot fire into my house an' barns so fast that afore I know'd what'd happened ther whole business was a flame o' fire. Seein' as how I couldn't do nuthin' ter save ther things, I jest waited till they gits through with their cussedness, an' then—what'd ye think? Afore they know'd what'd struck 'em I sent ther bullets from my Winchester a-flyin' after them like hot cakes, an' four o' them fell in their tracks, while ther two got away, an' all their hosses lit out down ther road, without riders, like lead shot out o' a cannon on ther field o' war."

The old man spat out another wad of tobacco and put a fresh plug in his mouth. There was some hesitation before he spoke again.

"You take it rather cool," said Wade, after a short silence.

"Gotter, my boy. Them was terrible times 'round hyar, but ef I calkerlate right, we air in ther midst o' jest sich another time, right now."

Old Peter Judson looked squarely into Wade's eyes, forcing the latter to turn his gaze.

"Ye air a young man, Wade," said Judson, "an' I want ter give ye some advice, fust class advice, an' yer better take it, too. When ye dig a hole fer some other feller, be shore ye dig it so deep he cain't get out'n hit, an' then"—Peter was emphatic—"be shore ye don't git into that hole yerself. Hit's a durn sight easier, Wade, ter start somethin' than hit is ter stop it after ye onct git it started. D'ye mind that now?"

"I believe I understand," said Wade, with a far-away look on his countenance.

"I'll tell ye agin, young man, that yer Uncle Peter Judson's been through ther fires o' hell 'round this hyar mountain, an' he knows what he's talkin' 'bout. Afore mornin' ye'll see that cabin down yonder all aflames, lickin' ther very sky in an effort ter eat up ther stars."

"What, mine, do you mean?"

"Ther same, boy. Why, what makes yer look so durn funny? Hit's ther solid truth, God knows, Jack Wade, yer own cabin'll be ashes afore another sun rises over ther mountain. Ye have made a enemy out'n Al Thompson, an' nuthin' this side o' hell could stop him from a-killin' ye, ef ye don't git him fust. Ye needn't git upon yer high spirits an' think yer kin stop it, fer ye cain't. A fawty-hoss power gatlin'-gun woudn't stop them savages to-night, so jest be easy an' take it natural like, an' ye won't feel so bad when hit's all over. Me an' Tom'll go down with ye after awhile an' help ye put everything out in ther field, an' move ther stock ter a place o' safety, so's ter fool them fiends that much—"

"I won't submit to it," interrupted Wade angrily. "I'll kill the man who tries to burn my property."

"That's what ye kin do, Wade, but ye must wait till some other time. I'd ruther take that rifle thar an' blow yer brains out'n yer head whar ye stand than ter let ye go down thar an' git killed without any show 'tall. Don't up an' git mad now. Ye'll see that old Peter Judson knows what he's talkin' 'bout. I've been in this kintry too long fer to not know. Ye've made a enemy out o' Al Thompson, an' he's a chip off'n ther old block, only his Daddy is worse nur him. He's worse nur the old devil hisself, an' they won't rest till they're torn the earth up around ther mountain, an' dug a hole deep 'nough ter put a dozen good men in."

Old Peter paused again, while Wade looked down toward the earth with a troubled expression on his face.

"What's the matter with the law in this country?" asked Wade, although he knew that law and order were unknown to these people.

"Ther hain't any law," replied Peter. "Ther law tried ter git out here onct, an' I seed old Jim Thompson kill two officers. I seed it with my own eyes, an' Tom a-comin' yonder saw him shoot one down in his tracks. They want no more in town what'd tackle comin' after him, an' he's still hyar a-doin' business in ther same old way."

Jack Wade was considerably puzzled. Here was an old farmer, who he had calculated to shoot through the heart some day, now giving him advice which he thought would save his life—at least would save him much trouble. Here was a man who had just related to him that the Riders had at one time swooped down on him and destroyed his home and all else he had possessed save what he took out to the field; here was a man that rumor said was one of the very leaders of a band of lawless desperadoes who sought the lives of all good citizens of the community, now telling him of a man whose deeds were enough to turn the heart of a less brave man into a channel of terrible fear. This man was now trying to save his life, would himself rather put a bullet into his brain than see others do it or know that others had done so. That was friendship bordering on love. What kind of a man is he?

The mysteries of the hill deepen, the mysteries of the valley broaden. The closer he seems to have got to his desired end the further is he away from it. His plans seem crumbling to decay, his strong heart was bound in utter weakness. One glance from the firm, dark eyes of Nora Judson took all the manhood out of his soul. One touch of her finger tips made weak his stalwart frame. Now he must stand idle, in meek submission, while his sworn enemies burned his cabin and filled the air with their curses because they could not find the object of their vengeance and tear him to pieces bit by bit.

Jack Wade cursed under his breath and bit his lips till the blood flowed, as he looked down toward his lonesome little cabin home, which he had come to look upon as a true friend. His heart bounded in his bosom, his brow corrugated, his eyes danced and gleamed fire as he swore a second vengeance upon the perpetrators of this intended foul, heinous crime. The black demons of hell darted before his maddened stare, laughing joyously, dancing happily, because of his great discomfiture. He gripped the butt of his pistol, while his eyes lighted on a rifle, which he snatched up, then started off in lone defense of his own property. Nora, who had been watching him constantly, laid her hand upon his shoulder. The touch was like magic upon his wearied soul.

"Don't, Jack," she whispered softly, impressively. "Dad is quite right. Ye are sure to git killed ef ye go down there to-night."

Nora saw that Wade was filled with emotional indignity. For a moment he was about to shake loose from her grasp, but he felt her grip on his arm tighten.

"For my sake, Jack."

He turned and looked into her eyes. The light of real love shone from them, and a thrill ran through his being.

"For your sake I'd better go," he said.