Читать книгу: «The Code of the Mountains», страница 7

The Deacon was thinking several moves ahead. Yet he, who could dictate to a fierce faction, stood in fear of little Newt. He had stopped him once, and had promised the boy his future assistance. Newt wanted one of the only two men in the country who must not be killed; whose assassination would bring down the wrath of the state and flood the county with soldiers, and make even a timid judiciary more afraid to shield than to punish. Yet, how to stop this boy puzzled Black Pete to such an extent that, as he rode, his brow was deeply corrugated. Inwardly he cursed bitterly the ladies who had sympathized and the Governor who had pardoned. It would have been much better to let the troublesome prisoner rot in the penitentiary.

The Deacon was not riding the county roads back to Troublesome. He was taking a shorter and steeper trail, which led over the mountains. Travel by this way was slow and arduous, but it was an isolated way and offered a better route for a man who wished to ride unseen.

At a point where the narrow trail doubled sharply around the shoulder of a hill-top and where the soft earth deadened the hoofbeats of his horse, he came unexpectedly on a walking figure. The mounted man had come around the angle so unwarnedly that he seemed to rise from nowhere. The walking figure had made an instinctive dive for the cover of the roadside brush and tangle, and then, with a realization that it was too late to escape detection, had halted and stood with his bare feet planted in the soft mud of the road and his face slowly blackening. The man on foot was Newt Spooner. He was once more dressed in mountain jeans and butternut, and at his side his swinging right hand clutched a repeating rifle.

The Deacon drew his horse to a standstill with an amicable nod.

"Howdy, Newt?" he greeted. The boy made no response, and shifted his weight from foot to foot, while his eyes kindled with growing fury. About a little roadside puddle fluttered a small flock of white and lemon butterflies, disturbed by human invasion, and on a branch overhead a squirrel ran out and stopped cautiously.

"There's a squirrel, Newt," suggested the Deacon casually. "I reckon you're squirrel-huntin', ain't you?"

But the boy did not answer, and the Deacon knew why. He was thirteen miles from home, and was stalking bigger game than squirrels.

CHAPTER XI

For a little space the two men looked at each other, the Deacon to outward seeming with the casual interest of a chance meeting, and the boy with a lowering truculence which augured trouble.

The little mud-butterflies alighted again at the edge of the puddle, and the squirrel whisked himself away.

Back on the hillsides the white elder blossoms and pink-hearted laurel cups nodded in the sleepy languor of a summer afternoon. In the overhead blue a buzzard drifted on tilting wings.

"You're right far off your beat, ain't you, son?" suggested Black Pete at length.

The sullen visage did not alter or brighten.

"I hain't none too fur off," was the surly response. "I reckon I knows what I'm a-doin'."

The Deacon nodded. He had been thankful for the momentary silence which had afforded him an interval for fast and very necessary thinking, and he had made use of the opportunity. Straight as a crow flies, Newt Spooner was making his way across crest and cove and gulch to the house of the man he had "marked down." He had been home three weeks now, and his lungs had drunk in the splendid mountain air and the elixir had begun to heal the soreness of his chest. The pallor had left his face and the native brown had come again to his skin. Newt Spooner was tough-fibered, and his recovery, as any eye could see, would now be speedy and complete. Also, he had practised with his rifle until he no longer doubted his ability to handle it, and he was going on this tuneful and gracious day at the end of June to carry out his unalterable purpose. All this the Deacon read from his eyes and from the circumstances of the meeting. The Deacon had gone to the Falkins house unarmed, as his pose of peace-advocate required, and the boy standing in the road before him had shifted the rifle with a rather marked emphasis of gesture, so that now it was cradled on his elbow, and his right hand was almost caressingly toying with the lock. This time he could command the situation, and his face said that he meant to do it.

"I reckon I know what you are aimin' to do, son," suggested the older man as he swung one leg over the pommel, and sat sidewise, looking down.

The boy's eyes flashed.

"Hit hain't whut I'm aimin' ter do," he declared. "Hit's whut I'm dead shore a-goin' ter do."

"It comes to the same thing," agreed Pete imperturbably. "When a feller like you an' me has got his mind made up to a thing, there ain't much difference between aimin' an' doin'."

Suddenly it occurred to the boy that the presence of the Deacon over here was in itself worthy of explanation.

"Whut air ye a-doin' hyar?" he snapped out.

"I've just been over to Old Mack's house," replied the other frankly, and he saw the boy's attitude stiffen from head to foot at the name. His shoulders grew rigid and his eyes snapped. The rifle came half-way up, and the rifle-bearer came a step forward.

"Ye didn't carry no warnin' over thar, did ye?" The question was a snarling whisper.

Black Pete laughed. It was a thing so rare for him to laugh that the boy was surprised, but at once he grew thoughtfully, even sadly grave again.

"Son," he reproached, "when we told you down in Winchester what we aimed to do, an' you turned us down, did I act like I was afraid of your warnin' anybody? Moreover, didn't I promise you that I'd help you in this business?"

"I don't need no holpin'," declared the boy vehemently; "all I asts is ter be let alone."

"All right." The Deacon swung his dangling foot back to the stirrup. "I was just goin' to name it to you that Henry Falkins ain't there. If you're set on walkin' these three miles more for nothin' and then walkin' 'em back again, go right ahead. There'll be half-a-dozen Falkinses to see you and spread the news that you've been skulkin' round the place. You'll give the whole business away without findin' your man. If that's the way you want to play your game, go ahead."

The boy gazed at his informant with disappointed eyes, and the Deacon gazed back steadily.

"Air ye plumb shore thet he hain't thar? He was thar day before yestiddy. I knows thet fer shore." The boy spoke eagerly, but the more wily schemer shook his head with positiveness.

"He left this mornin' for Winchester. Seems he's got a girl in Winchester. Ef you're inclined, you can get up behind me, an' I'll give you a lift as far as I go."

Newt believed this story, but it only fired his wrath, and his voice was sour, as he put his next question:

"Whut in hell wus you a-doin' over thar at McAllister Falkins' house?"

It was naturally no part of the Deacon's program to tell that. His mind was even now working rapidly in the effort to devise some permanent means of curbing Newt's sinister activities. The present device of falsification was merely a play for time and would serve a very transitory purpose.

"Oh," he said casually, "I don't mind tellin' you, but I wouldn't like it to get round much, son. I was pullin' the wool over their eyes, an' tryin' to help out those boys that shot Jake Falerin."

But, if Black Pete Spooner could have looked far enough into the future, he would have allowed his lawless cousin to go his way and satisfy his vengeance, and would have taken his own chance on escape.

The two rode on together, up steep ascents and down into fragrant gorges where the waters whispered and the dampness of fern and moss lay between dripping bowlders. They went through densely tangled trails where the incense of the elder and catalpa was heavy to the nostrils, and climbed over steep and precipitous heights, and to neither came a throb of enthusiasm for the profligate beauty of the vistas.

"Clem's gal" had gone back to school some time ago, and it was only on vacations and Saturdays that she returned to the cabin on Troublesome.

But this afternoon, when Newt trudged in from his futile expedition across the hills, he saw her crossing the yard in the gathering twilight, and this time the boy did not growl in his throat like a quarrelsome dog at the sight of her. He would not admit to himself that he liked her, but he disliked her less than the others. She was too much like a "furriner" to please him, and too quiet. There was no element in his creed of intolerance, which could understand her gentleness. It was sheer weakness, yet in that very weakness was an appeal to something in himself, which he did not seek to analyze. At all events, "Clem's gal" in a way interested him. She was young and lithe and strong; stronger than the women whom she permitted to badger her with incessant shrewishness. Also, she must be "smarter" than they, for she had been away to school. This fondness for "larnin'" in itself indicated a reprehensible spirit of acceptance for the "stuck-up" ideas of the outer world. But for that she had some excuse. Her shiftless father, for whom the boy entertained a deep contempt, had humored his daughter's ambitions so that she might in the end secure her teacher's certificate and contribute to his support. It was not an unselfish motive, but the girl, eager for education, had not questioned motives.

When Lucinda Merton had taken Newt in her buggy on the outskirts of Winchester, a vague sense of sunshine had struck through the fog of his friendlessness, and he had, for the first time, a conception of feminine graciousness. In his brief talks with Minerva the same incomprehensible thing occurred. Some unaccountable glow of sympathy awoke in him, and he felt that he need not be on the defensive, alert for treachery and enmity.

When she went away, a sort of dull loneliness settled over him, and when she came back, an unacknowledged pleasure stole into his heart.

After the supper things were put away Newt went sulkily out of the cabin and took himself to the quiet of the creek-bank, some distance away. There was no moon, and in the starlight the mountains loomed very dark and somber against the steely night sky. The trees were unstirring and no wind moved even in their uppermost fronds. The boy sat hunched at the top of the bank with his face in his two hands and his elbows on his knees. At last, he reached into his pocket for his pipe and a few crumbs of tobacco. In the spurt of the match, his features were for an instant lighted, and Minerva, who also had slipped out of the crowded cabin for the peace of the open air and the stars, saw in the momentary illumination that it was a face very black and brooding and unhappy. She, too, was unhappy. She was thinking how at this hour back there in the school, the little family of teachers and such pupils as had not had to come away would be sitting on the latticed porch, looking off over the campus. Later on, in the comfortable library, the man who guided the institution with a sure and sympathetic wisdom would be reading to them under the shaded lamp, giving them wonderful glimpses of another world through the windows of books. Reflecting on these things, the girl had strayed farther away from the house than she had expected, and had come upon Newt, brooding in solitary wretchedness over the day's failure.

"Newt," she said shyly, when she came up to him, "ye looks like as ef somethin' was a-botherin' ye. Is anything wrong?"

The boy turned his head slowly, then shook it in silence.

"Nothin' to tell a gal," he answered.

In the darkness he was a black silhouette except that as he drew deep puffs the pipe-bowl reddened and gave momentary outline to his tight jaws and scowling mouth.

They sat together without talk for a time. Once a small owl flapped to a branch overhead and sent its mournful quaver out across the night. After awhile the boy groped around for a stick, and, rising with a sudden angry oath, hurled it viciously at the bird.

"Damn thet owl," he complained. "Hit worrits me."

"Newt – " the girl's voice was softly reproachful – "why did you drive it away? It wasn't hurtin' anything."

"Hit warn't a-fotchin' joy ter nobody," he sullenly rejoined. "I hain't a-feelin' in no fit humor ter be pestered."

Once more she inquired:

"Is anything the matter?"

He rose, and his voice broke out passionately.

"Every man's hand is sot ergin me – but hit hain't no use. I 'lows ter accomplish my task, ef I has ter go through hell on hossback ter do hit!"

She did not know, or vaguely suspect, that the thing he "'lowed" to do was to kill the man whom she had set high on the pedestal of her hero-worship; that his avowal was the avowal of the vendetta's lust for blood. She saw only his isolation and need of friendliness. She did not know that in letting himself out in even that small measure of confidence, he was paying tribute to her increasing importance in his life. She knew only that her sympathy was stirred and that an affection such as she might have felt for some unlovely dog, starving for affection, made her want to befriend him.

"My hand ain't against you," she assured him, and, as the pipe glowed with a long, half-fierce inhalation, she saw his eyes on her face with a dumb, half-worshiping expression, for which his lips found no utterance. But all the man said was:

"I'm obleeged ter ye," and after that they sat for an hour in silences rarely broken with a disconnected conversation. It was the conversation of two very lonely people groping for companionship, but one was very shy and the other was fettered with a taciturnity too strong to break, so the groping brought little more than an incoherent sympathy.

Neither of them heard the footfalls of a horse on the sandy road above them, and neither of them knew that Black Pete Spooner went into the cabin and spent a half-hour there. His coming was at once a surprise and an event, for the people in that house had not heard that he had reappeared in the hills, and they knew that where he went trouble went with him.

"Where's little Newt?" he inquired, peering about the dark corners of the room.

"He's done went out somewhars," replied his mother. "When did ye git hyar, Pete? I heered tell that ye had gone off to some place the other side of the world."

"Didn't Newt tell you I was back?"

"Newt don't never tell us nothin'," complained Clem.

The Deacon nodded. Then he drew Clem aside.

"Do you know what little Newt aims to do?" he accusingly demanded.

Clem shook his head, and his bearded face mirrored anxiety.

"I done told ye he don't never tell us nothin'."

"Well, he's aimin' to kill Henry Falkins, an' if he does it, there's goin' ter be merry hell to pay in these mountains. You've got to keep an eye on him."

"My God!" exclaimed the step-father in genuine fright and perplexity. "What kin I do? He don't pay no mind to me – none whatsoever. Thet boy's a rattle-snake in human form."

The Deacon looked the other contemptuously up and down.

"No, he ain't," was the prompt retort. "A rattle-snake gives warnin', Newt don't. I'm havin' him watched pretty close. I don't want him hurt, but he mustn't kill Henry. Don't tell him I've been here, but if he starts over towards the Falkins place, send word to Jim Spooner's cabin. Jim will go up to the ridge an' blow his fox horn, an' they'll pass it along. Try to keep him home from Jackson Saturday, but if he does go, send word to Jim when he's started, and we'll take care of him when he gets there." The Deacon turned and disappeared through the door. He had several other houses to visit, and he had selected the night because in its darkness he could give his movements a highly beneficial secrecy.

But, on the following day, Newt met an acquaintance on a hill-trail, who stopped him for conversation and planted seeds of suspicion in his mind. He spoke of a rumor traveling from cabin to cabin to the effect that the Deacon had returned to the hills to act as a pacificator, instead of a leader of war.

Newt said nothing and contented himself with listening, but deep in his suspicious nature uneasy doubts began to stir. A peace might be welcomed by his people, but to him it threatened the paralyzing of his trigger-finger. Possibly the wily Deacon had lied to him and turned him back for some deeper reason than merely to save him the remainder of a profitless journey.

So Newton Spooner, as soon as he had the opportunity, began strolling from cabin to cabin along the way toward the Falkins house once more. He heard, but did not know the significance of the fox horns that carried clearly from ridge to ridge, and when he had reached the wayside store of Sam Hoover, standing on a sandy stretch in the crotch of two creeks, he instituted active inquiries.

CHAPTER XII

Sam Hoover he thought he could trust. Sam, at least, had come to him when they were taking him to prison, and had denounced the lethargy with which his kinsmen were standing idle while he went into bondage.

The store was a frame shack, presenting at its front a barrel-littered porch and a hitching-rack. Beyond one of the creek branches stood a dilapidated "meeting house" in a flat, gravel-strewn area. Sam Hoover himself sat at his door; a slouching giant in store clothes, coatless and open of vest, collarless and soiled of linen. His movements were ponderous, and his eyes were sunk in pouched sockets.

As Newt slouched up to the porch in the forenoon, the waves of heat were playing over the earth, and the mountains were torpid with mid-day stillness. This was a point about half-way between the two clan centers, and the man who trafficked here presented to each faction in turn the guise of friendship and to each played the tale-bearer under his smug semblance of neutrality.

But the place was a point from which branched the road that Henry Falkins must travel to Jackson, and the store-keeper would know when he had last passed that way.

Now, it happened that, though the Deacon had invented on the spur of the moment his news of Henry Falkins' departure, he had come much nearer the truth than he himself guessed. Almost a week intervened before Saturday and it had occurred to the young man, although he would have laughed had someone else made the suggestion, that the Fourth of July held some element of danger for himself. That being the case, he was possessed of a desire to see the girl in Winchester in the meantime. It might be a last chance. He had no intent of confiding in her anything that might alarm her, but he thought that with her words of love fresh in his memory he could undertake Saturday's work armed and accoutered with a higher confidence. So, almost on the heels of the Deacon, when he had left the Falkins house, Henry had ridden, bound for Jackson and Winchester. Had Newt Spooner gone home on foot and by the county road instead of with the Deacon and by sequestered trails, the two men must have met near Hoover's store – and Henry Falkins would not have gone on to Winchester.

Sam Hoover greeted the boy with a, "Howdy, Newt?" and the boy sat on the floor of the porch with a silent nod, and leaned his shoulders against a post. At last, he questioned casually:

"Hev ye seed anything of Henry Falkins here-abouts of late?"

"He rid by hyar this week," the store-keeper responded. "Hit war either the day afore yistiddy or the day afore thet, I disremember which, but he stopped to water his horse, and passed the time o' day with me. He 'lowed he war a-travelin' ter Winchester."

"Air ye plumb shore he hain't rid back?"

"He 'lowed he'd be back Satiddy – an' I hain't seen him pass by, so I reckon he warn't a-lyin'."

Newt sat watching a flock of geese that waddled down the gravel to the creek, and Hoover forbore to question him. After a space the boy rose, stretched his arms and legs, and succinctly announced, "Reckon I'll be a-startin' home." He did not know that men apportioned to that task by the Deacon watched and reported his going and coming, even to the words of the brief conversation at the wayside store. Sam Hoover, however, gave his information impartially, and the Deacon was duly informed.

Henry Falkins was riding along the gleaming white ribbon of turnpike near Winchester.

Over this land was brooding one of those days of rare charm that sometimes come to the bluegrass about the first of July. While the summer was yet young and while the gold-headed wheat was falling into rich shocks behind the binder blade, there had drifted into the heat a vagrant breath of Indian summer. The distances lay softened by a mistiness that clung like a haze of dreams. Into the air stole an insinuating freshness, which set the blood to a keener pulsing, and over the breast of the undulating soil hung an impalpable, but unescapable, mantle of romance.

The slim girl who sat her dancing saddle-mare with the easy grace of a daughter of generations of horsemen, felt it and glanced sidewise at the somewhat grave-faced young man by her side. He, too, felt it and drank in long drafts of the incensed air. He was as well mounted as herself, but his horsemanship lacked her instinctive freedom of poise. Henry Falkins, though much of his life had been spent in the saddle, had been reared to the ways of a country where men must ride rough and tortuous roads and rarely ride well. The horse of race-track and show-ring and hunting field were as alien there as the other bluegrass luxuries of wainscoted halls and silent servants and groaning tables and silver-surmounted sideboards.

Even now, athrill with the joy of the moment, Henry Falkins felt at the back of his mind an oppressive sense of the humorless and brooding hills, and the humorless and brooding men who peopled them.

They were turning between stone gate-posts into a driveway that led through shaded woodlands where thorough-bred dams grazed in sleek aristocracy with leggy colts capering at their sides. Beyond was the brick house, toned by its generations to an ancient richness, with its harping pine and cedar trees about it, and at the left its garden, giving a border of bright flower mosaic.

They had not been talking much. They were both happy enough to be silent together, but as they turned into the home place Lucinda raised sparkling eyes. He was riding close, and, as his horse swerved suddenly to the side of her own mount, she leaned impulsively toward him and let her gauntleted hand drop for a moment to his bridle arm, as she whispered happily:

"My bluegrass is yours, and your mountains are mine – and all the life of Kentucky is ours!"

At the broad verandah where a negro appeared to take their horses, Colonel Cameron looked up from his paper and smiled his welcome. The entire house seemed to smile a welcome. Late roses still clung along the walls where their earlier brethren were fallen to pods. The girl sat in a deep porch-chair and the setting sun gilded the landscape and rested on her delicate coloring and features as she smiled on the two men whom she loved: the old man of the passing order of chivalry and elegance, and the young man of slowly awakening hills. And when night came the man and the girl sat alone in the shadow of an oak. Soon he must be back in the troubled highlands, but to-night was his, with its stars overhead; its sense of security and delight; its whispered talk; and, drifting from the negro cabins, the mellow cadence of songs and the tinkle of banjos. When the girl fell silent and he spoke only by the telegraphy of his hand-clasp on her slender fingers, there came to his ears the words of an old song, forgotten save by these children and grandchildren of slaves:

 
"Way down yander in de big bayou —
Whar de Yankee gunboats lay,
Ole Massa's tuck his hat an' coat —
An' I spec's he's runned away."
 

Yet, Henry Falkins was conscious of missing something that should go with the night, for there was no calling of whippoorwills from the overhead thickets of timber and no dark shadow-walls of mountains closing in about him.

Early on the morning of Saturday, the Fourth of July, Newt Spooner left the door of the cabin on Troublesome, and went across to the stable, carrying his rifle. Under his coat was strapped Clem's revolver, and again his pockets were "strutty with ca'tridges." He vouchsafed no explanation, and Clem, though heavy-hearted with anxiety, asked no questions and attempted no dissuasion. He merely stood looking on stupidly, as the boy led out and saddled the one nag in the stable, and swung the beast's head toward Jackson, riding away in the morning mists. Over these roads, climbing, dropping, crossing water-courses sometimes by a dozen fords to the mile, he did not hurry. He would not reach Jackson by the north road until about ten o'clock, and then he would drift quietly and unostentatiously about for a while, watching the gathering of the two clans. There might be general trouble or there might not; but until noon quiet would prevail. The Deacon had certain plans and would be in command. The boy was learning the lesson of craft. He meant to see the Deacon and assure him that he had given up his plan of private revenge. He would even volunteer for such service to the clan as Black Pete should suggest. Having so disarmed suspicion, he could have a free hand, and, when his chance came, could employ it. Once avenged, he was ready to answer for his treachery.

The usually deserted roads were no longer empty. From every trail men were riding townward. The rumor had gone broadcast that to-day would be eventful, and from both sides of the line the clans were gathering. Many of them arrived early, and instinctively Spooners grouped themselves on one side of the street and Falkinses on the other. Rifles were much in evidence, but with this exception there was as yet no sign of trouble.

As Newt had ridden out of the stable-lot, Minerva had come to the door of the cabin. On the Fourth of July there were no classes at the college, and the girl was back. She saw her father gaze after the departing horseman and then turn with a sagging jaw and an expression of genuine alarm in his eyes. She heard him shout a summons to his younger step-son, and a premonition of danger arose in her heart.

She ran over to the stable, and caught Clem Rawlins by the arm.

"What is it, pappy?" she demanded.

He turned a frightened face toward her, and licked his bearded lips. For a moment he was silent, then he blurted out with no preface or preparation:

"Newty's done sot out fer Jackson ter git Henry Falkins."

With a gasp which she struggled vainly to suppress, the girl reeled back and stood leaning for support against the rough timbers of the stable. For a moment she could not understand, and when she found words she asked in a dazed voice:

"To get Henry Falkins – why?"

Over the hills the mists were slowly lifting. The upper peaks still trailed over their heights, veil-like streamers of gray mists which blotted out all outlines; but below them pale and iridescent patches of color glowed with indescribable delicacy and beauty. The miracle of awakening morning in the mountains was fulfilling itself. There before her the girl saw the crude barn and heard the grunting of razor-backs and the voices of the geese as they waddled down toward the water. She saw her father brushing his arm across his face, and shouting at intervals for his younger step-son. Once more she repeated:

"To get Henry Falkins – why?"

"Henry's ther man thet penitensheried Newt," came the response. "Newt's done swore the blood-oath. He's done tried oncet afore, but he was hindered. Thar's a meetin' over at Jackson terday, an' men air lookin' fer trouble. Newt aims ter git Henry terday."

Suddenly the girl's stupor broke into a fury of inquisition.

"Does ye aim ter stand there an' suffer a man ter be murdered without liftin' a finger ter save him?" Her questioning voice rose shrilly and lapsed into dialect. "Why did ye stand by an' let Newt go?"

Clem Rawlins shook his head.

"What war I a-goin' ter do?" he perplexedly demanded. "Does ye reckon Newty war liable ter take counsel offen me."

"Well, ye've got ter do suthin now, Clem Rawlins," she commanded, and her voice was fiercely imperative. "Ther blood-curse hes laid on these hyar hills full long, an' God Almighty will hold ye blameful ef ye don't stop this killin'."

The man stood there dazed and frightened, and dropped his eyes before the flaming accusation of her steady gaze.

His bare toes twisted themselves in the dust, and at last he spoke, almost in a whine:

"Ther Deacon hes done bid me ter fotch word ter Jim Spooner's cabin ef Newt fared forth terday. They aims ter send ther signal ahead with fox horns, an' ther Deacon 'lows ter look atter Newty when he gits ter town. Thet's what I'm a-callin' sonny fer. I wants ter send him over ter Jim's house."

The girl laughed scornfully. This moment of need had transformed her from Minerva of the schools to Minerva of the unrelenting hills. Her mission was still the mission of the school, but her method was the method of the hills.

"An' ye aims ter trust ther life of ther only real man in these mountings ter ther dawdling of sonny?" The question was contemptuous. She, who brooked day-long heckling without retort, must now be answered without evasion. "No – I'll go myself, an' I won't stop thar. I'll borry a ridin'-critter from Jim Spooner, an' I'll take the short cut over ther ridges an' ther roughs, an' I'll git ter town ahead of Newt. I aims ter carry a warnin' inter Jackson."

She wheeled and without sun-bonnet or hat plunged into the laurel thickets of the hillside, and was climbing with a tireless stride up slopes which would have winded a razor-back hog.

Later on, she could think: now, she must act. The life of the man she had idealized was the prize for which she was fighting.

Suddenly the full significance of the boy's declaration that he would accomplish his end if he had to "ride through hell on hossback" came to her.

She had started out by hating Newt. Of late, she had felt that deep sympathy for him which is the borderland of affection. She had resolved on reclaiming him. Now, again, she hated him.