Whirling, he made out the lank shadow of a man leaning against a tree close by.

"Good evening," he muttered in some confusion, conscious of a sense of guilt in being caught in the act of spying.

"I've been follerin' you fer quite a ways," observed the unknown. "Guess you don't remember me. My name is Stain, Isaac Stain."

"I remember you quite well," said Kenneth, stiffly. "May I inquire why you have been following me, Mr. Stain?"

"Well, I jest didn't know of anybody else I could come to about a certain matter. It has to do with that feller, Lapelle, up yander in Trentman's place. Fust, I went up to Mrs. Gwyn's house, but it was all dark, an' nobody to home 'cept that dog o' her'n. He knowed me er else he'd have jumped me. I guess we'd better mosey away from this place. A good many trees have ears, you know."

They walked off together in the direction of town. Stain was silent until they had put a hundred paces or more between them and the grove.

"Seems that Violy is right smart taken with this Lapelle feller," he observed. "Well, I thought I'd oughter tell her ma what I heerd about him to-day. Course, everybody's heerd queer things about him, but this beats anything I've come acrosst yet. Martin Hawk's daughter, Moll, come hoofin' it up to my cabin this mornin' an' told me the derndest story you've ever heerd. She came to me, she sez, on account of me bein' an old friend of Rachel's, an' she claims to be a decent, honest girl in spite of what her dodgasted father is. Everybody believes Mart is a hoss thief an' sheep-stealer an' all that, but he hain't ever been caught at it. He's purty thick with Barry Lapelle. Moll Hawk sez her dad'll kill her if he ever finds out she come to me with this story. Seems that Barry an' Violy are calculatin' on gettin' married an' the old woman objects. Some time this past week, Violy told Barry she wouldn't marry him anywheres 'cept in her own mother's house. Well, from what Moll sez, Barry has got other idees about it."

He paused to bite off a fresh chew of tobacco.

"Go on, Stain. What did the girl tell you?"

"'Pears that Barry ain't willin' to take chances on gettin' married jest that way, an' besides he's sort of got used to havin' anything he wants without waitin' very long fer it. Now, I don't know whuther Violy's a party to the scheme or not,—maybe she is an' maybe she ain't. But from what Moll Hawk sez there's a scheme on foot to get the best of Rachel Gwyn by grabbin' Violy some night an' rushin' her to a hidin' place down the river where Barry figgers he c'n persuade her to marry him an' live happy ever afterwards, as the sayin' is. Seems that Barry figgers that you, bein' a sort o' brother to her, will put your foot down on them gettin' married, so he's goin' to get her away from here before it's too late. Moll sez it's all fixed up, 'cept the time fer doin' it. Martin Hawk an' a half dozen fellers from some'eres down the river is to do the job. All she knows is it's to be in the dark o' the moon, an' that's not fer off. Moll sez she believes Violy knows about the plan an' sort of agrees to—"

"I don't believe it, Stain," broke in Kenneth. "She would not lend herself to a low-down trick like that."

Stain shook his head. "They say she's terrible in love with Barry, an' gosh only knows what a woman'll stoop to in order to git the man she's set her heart on. Why, I could tell you somethin' about a woman that was after me some years back,—a widder down below Vincennes,—her husband used to run a flatboat,—an', by cracky, Mr. Gwynne, you wouldn't believe the things she done. Chased me clean down to Saint Louis an' back ag'in, an' then trailed me nearly fifty miles through the woods to an Injin village on the White River. I don't know what I'd have done if it hadn't been fer an Injin I'd befriended a little while back. He shot her in the leg an' she was laid up fer nearly six weeks, givin' me that much of a start. That was four years ago an' to this day I never go to sleep at night without fust lookin' under the bed. Some day I'll tell you all about that woman, but not now. I'm jest tellin' this to show you what a woman'll do when she once makes up her mind, an' maybe Violy ain't any different from the rest of 'em."

"Nevertheless, Viola is not that kind," asserted Kenneth, stubbornly. "She may be in love with Lapelle, but if she has made up her mind to be married at her mother's house, that's the end of it. See here, Stain, I've been thinking while you were talking. If there is really anything in this story, I doubt the wisdom of going to Mrs. Gwyn with it, and certainly it would be a bad plan to speak to Viola. We've got to handle this matter ourselves. I want to catch Barry Lapelle red-handed. That is the surest way to convince Viola that he is an unworthy scoundrel. It is my duty to protect my—my sister—and I shall find a way to do so, whether she likes it or not. You know, perhaps, that we are not on the friendliest of terms."

"Yep, I know," said Stain. "You might as well know that I am on their side, Mr. Gwynne. Whatever the trouble is between you an' them two women, I am for them an' ag'in you. That's understood, ain't it?"

"It is," replied Kenneth, impressed by the hunter's frankness. "But all the more reason why in a case like this you and I should work hand in hand. I am glad you came to me with the Hawk girl's story. Hawk and his crew will find me waiting for them when they come. They will not find their job a simple one."

"I guess you'll need a little help, Mr. Gwynne," said Stain, drily. "What are you goin' to do? Call in a lot o' these dodgasted canary birds to fight the hawks? If you do, you'll get licked. What you want is a man er two that knows how to shoot an' is in the habit o' huntin' varmints. You c'n count on me, Mr. Gwynne, if you need me. If you feel that you don't need me, jest say so, an' I'll go it alone. I don't like Martin Hawk; we got a grudge to settle, him an' me. So make your choice. You an' me will work in cahoots with each other, or we'll go at it single-hand."

"We will work together, Stain," said Kenneth, promptly. "You know your man, you know the lay of the land, and you are smarter than I am when it comes to handling an affair of this kind. I will be guided by you. Shake hands."

The two men shook hands. Then the lawyer in Gwynne spoke.

"You should see this Hawk girl again and keep in touch with their plans. We must not let them catch us napping."

"She's comin' to see me in a day er so. Mart Hawk went down to Attica to-day, him an' a feller named Suggs who's been soberin' up at Mart's fer the past few days. The chances are he's gone down there on this very business."

"Will you keep in touch with me?"

"Yes, sir. If you ain't got anything to do to-morrow, you might ride out to my place, where we c'n talk a little more free-like."

"A good idea, Stain. You are sure nothing is likely to happen to-night?"

"Not till the dark o' the moon, she sez."

"By the way, why is she turning against her father like this?"

"Well, you remember what I was jest sayin' about women,—how sot they are in their ways concarnin' a man? Well, Moll is after Barry Lapelle,—no question about that. She's an uncommon good-lookin' girl, I might say, an' I guess Barry ain't blind. Course, she's an unedicated girl an' purty poor trash,—you couldn't expect much else of a daughter of Martin Hawk, I guess,—but that don't seem to make much difference when it comes to fallin' in love. You don't need to have much book learnin' fer that. I could tell ye about a girl I used to know,—but we'll save it fer some other time."

"I see," mused Kenneth, reflectively. "She wants Lapelle for herself. But doesn't she realize that if they attempt this outrage her own father stands a pretty good chance of being shot?"

"Lord love ye, that don't worry her none," explained the hunter. "She don't keer much what happens to him. Why, up to this day he licks the daylights out o' her, big as she is. You c'n hear her yell fer half a mile. That's how she comes to be a friend o' mine, I happened to be huntin' down nigh Mart's place last fall an' heerd her screamin',—you could hear the blows landin' on her back, too,—so I jest stepped sort o' spry to'ards his cabin an' ketched him layin' it on with a wilier branch as thick as your thumb, an' her a screechin' like a wild-cat in a trap. Well, what happened inside the next minute made a friend o' her fer life,—an' an enemy o' him. You'd have thought any dootiful an' loyal offspring would o' tried to pull me off'n him, but all she done was to stand back an' egg me on, 'specially when I took to tannin' him with the same stick he'd been usin' on her. Seems like Mart's never felt very friendly to'ards me sence that day."

"I shouldn't think he would."

"When I got kind o' wore out with wollopin' him, I sot down to rest on the edge o' the waterin' trough, an' she comes over to me an' sez she wished I'd stay an' help her bury the old man. She said if I'd wait there she'd go an' get a couple o' spades out'n the barn,—well, to make a long story short, soon as Mart begin to realize he was dead an' wasn't goin' to have a regular funeral, with mourners an' all that, he sot up an' begin to whine all over ag'in. So I up an' told him if I ever heerd of him lickin' his gal ag'in, I'd come down an' take off what little hide there was left on him. He said he'd never lick her ag'in as long as he lived. So I sez to Moll, sez I, 'If you ever got anything to complain of about this here white-livered weasel, you jest come straight to me, an' I'll make him sorry he didn't get into hell sooner.' Well, sir, after that he never licked her without fust tyin' somethin' over her mouth so's she couldn't yell, an' it wasn't till this afternoon that I found out he'd been at it all along, same as ever, 'cept when Barry Lapelle was there. Seems that Barry stopped him from lickin' her once, an' that made Moll foller him around like a dog tryin' to lick his hand. No, sir, she won't be heartbroke if somebody puts a rifle ball between Mart's eyes an' loses it some'eres back inside his skull. She'd do it herself if she wasn't so doggoned sure somebody else is goin' to do it, sooner or later."

"You say there was no one at home up at Mrs. Gwyn's?" observed Kenneth, apprehensively. "That's queer. Where do you suppose they are?"

"That's what I'm wonderin' about. Mrs. Gwyn never goes nowhere, 'cept out to the farm, an' I'm purty sure she didn't—Say, do you hear somebody comin' up the road behind us?"

He laid a hand on Kenneth's arm and they both stopped to listen.

"I hear no one," said the young man.

"Well, you ain't got a hunter's ears," said the other. "Some one's follerin' us,—a good ways back. I've got so's I c'n hear an acorn drop forty mile away."

They drew off into the shadows at the roadside and waited. Twenty yards or more ahead gleamed the lights in the windows of the nearest store. A few seconds elapsed, and then Kenneth's ears caught the sound of footsteps in the soft dirt road, and presently the subdued murmur of voices.

"Women," observed Stain, laconically, lowering his voice. "Let 'em pass. If we show ourselves now, they'll think we're highwaymen or something, an' begin screechin' fer dear life."

Two vague, almost indistinguishable figures took shape in the darkness down the road and rapidly drew nearer. They passed within ten feet of the two men,—black voiceless shadows. Stain's hand still gripped his companion's arm. The women had almost reached the patches of light cast upon the road from the store windows, before the hunter spoke.

"Recognize 'em?" he whispered.

"No."

"Well, I guess I know now why there wasn't nobody to home up yander. That was Violy an' her ma."

Kenneth started. "You—you don't mean it!"

"Yep. An' if you was to ask me what they air doin' down here by the river I'd tell you. Mrs. Gwyn jest simply took Violy down there to Trentman's shanty an' SHOWED her Barry Lapelle playin' cards."

"Impossible! I would have seen them."

"Not from where you stood. The winders on the river side air open, an' you c'n see into the house. On the side facin' this way, Jack's got curtains hangin'. Well, Mrs. Gwyn took Violy 'round on t'other side where she could look inside. Maybe you didn't hear what they was sayin' when we fust beared 'em talkin'. Well, I did. I heared Violy say, plain as day, 'I don't keer what you say, mother, he swore to me he never plays except fer fun.' An' Rachel Gwyn, she sez, 'There ain't no setch thing as playin' fer fun in that place, so don't talk foolish.' That's all I heared 'em say,—an' they ain't spoke a word sence."

"Come along, Stain," said Kenneth, starting forward. "We must follow along behind, to see that they reach home safely."

The hunter gave vent to a deprecating grunt. "They won't thank us if they happen to turn around an' ketch us at it. 'Sides, I got to be startin' to'ards home. That ole hoss o' mine ain't used to bein' out nights. Like as not, he's sound asleep this minute, standin' over yander in front o' Curt Cole's blacksmith shop, an' whenever that hoss makes up his mind he's asleep there ain't nothin' that'll convince him he ain't. There they go, turnin' off Main street, so's they won't run across any curious-minded saints. Guess maybe we'd better trail along behind, after all."

Fifteen minutes later the two men, standing back among the trees, saw lights appear in the windows of Mrs. Gwyn's house. Then they turned and wended their way toward the public square. They had spoken but few words to each other while engaged in the stealthy enterprise, and then only in whispers. No one may know what was in the mind of the hunter, but in Kenneth's there was a readjustment of plans. A certain determined enthusiasm had taken the place of his previous depression. The excitement of possible conflict, the thrill of adventure had wrought a complete change in him. His romantic soul was aflame.

"See here, Stain," he began, when they were down the slope; "I've been thinking this matter over and I have come to the conclusion that the best thing for me to do is to go straight to Lapelle and tell him I am aware of his—"

"Say, you're supposed to be a lawyer, ain't you?" drawled his companion, sarcastically.

"Yes, I am," retorted Kenneth.

"Well, all I got to say is you'd make a better wood-chopper. Barry'd jest tell you to go to hell, an' that'd be the end of it as fer as you're concarned. Course, he'd give up the plan, but he'd make it his business to find out how you got wind of it. Next thing we'd know, Moll Hawk would have her throat slit er somethin',—an' I reckon that wouldn't be jest what most people would call fair, Mr. Gwynne. I guess we'd better let things slide along as they air an' ketch Mart an' his crowd in the act. You don't reckon that Barry is goin' to take a active part in this here kidnappin' job, do you? Not much! He won't be anywheres near when it happens. He's too cute fer that. You won't be able to fasten anything on him till it's too late to do anything."

Kenneth was properly humbled. "You are right, Stain. If you hear of anybody who wants to have some wood chopped, free of charge, I wish you'd let me know."

"Well," began the laconic Mr. Stain, "it takes considerable practice to get to be even a fair to middlin' woodchopper."