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CHAPTER XXV

When the curtain of unconsciousness rolled up again Blossom was no longer in the cave, but was lying on the ground between the rocks outside. It was dark now, but a lantern was lighted near at hand, and her wrists and ankles ached with the bite of knotted ropes.

Although she could see no one, she had the distinct sense of eyes gazing at her from somewhere beyond the narrow circle of light and as she stirred uneasily, she heard a voice that seemed to come from behind the sandstone at her right. "She's done come ter herself. Now we've need ter hasten." Then from her left a sugar-loaf bowlder appeared to question her.

"Whar did he go to? You knows an' we knows ye know – an' we don't aim ter be trifled with neither. Ef ye speaks out honest an' ready, we'll go an' git him fust an' then come back an' sot ye free afterwards."

Blossom writhed with a realization that she was in the hands of creatures as savagely merciless as wolves, but she set her teeth.

"I hain't never a-goin' ter tell ye," she declared staunchly, "not ef ye kills me!" A satirical laugh drifted from the shadows.

"All right, then, we've done made provision fer thet, too. Ef ye won't tell us whar he's at we'll find out fer ourselves, but we aims ter leave one man hyar with ye when we goes. He's done been drinkin' right-smart licker – an' he natch'rally won't want ye ter go away an' tell his name ter nobody."

The unseen speaker paused significantly, then added with a deliberate brutality: "I reckon ye'll have ter be mighty sweet ter thet man ef ye hopes ter go away from hyar alive."

The girl lay blanched but unyielding. She did not dare to hope that the threat was empty and her single chance lay in parrying for time. Bear Cat had said he would come back with reinforcements in two hours – if he won through – but he, too, was facing desperate odds and already they might have overwhelmed him: he might have failed in his dive from precipice to tree-top.

Her heart sank into a nausea of terror. No outrage was beyond these human jackals, but she was bred to iron courage and the warlike blood in her veins welled up in defiance.

"I've done already give ye my answer," she retorted, forgetting her ideals of diction. "I don't aim ter alter hit none – damn ye!"

"We aims ter be plumb fa'r an' reasonable," wheedled the voice of the spokesman with an evil sneer. "Deespite yore contrary muleishness, we're goin' ter tarry hyar jest precisely five minutes by ther watch ter afford ye a chanst ter study ther matter over, but don't make no mistake. We means, in sum an' substance, jest what we says … most anythin's liable ter happen ter ye when we goes away."

Blossom's pulses pounded so furiously that her sanity reeled through a thousand nightmare tortures before she heard the detestable voice once more drawling, "Wa'al, time's up. Ef ye fo'ces us now, hit's jest plain suicide – thet's all."

After that, for a while, she remembered nothing save the delusion that she was drowning – sinking down and still more deeply down through eternities. Her next definite impression came when she found herself inside the cave, with her head resting against the muddied knees of a man who sat cross-legged on the ground. At the mouth of the grotto was a lantern with its dimming shield turned outward so that, inside, its light fell in a grotesque effect of ragged formlessness.

As she stirred into returning consciousness, the creature who was cradling her aching head on his marrow-bones, took down the tin cup which just then obscured his face.

Blossom recognized Ratler Webb and the breath stopped in her tightened throat.

The degenerate face was unshaven and bristling. Its blood-shot eyes smirked at her with the brutalized leer of a satyr. The man bent over a little and with grimy fingers fondled the hair on her neck and temples.

"Jest tek yore time, sweetheart," he said. "Don't hasten ter rouse yoreself up. We've got ther night afore us."

As the girl flinched and struggled away from the beast-light of those predatory eyes, her captor only clasped her the closer so that his alcoholic breath came sickeningly close to her face. He chuckled thickly as he added, "I reckon I kin allow ye a leetle time – because we're beholden ter ye. We didn't hev no notion whar yore beau war a-hidin' at twell we left thet note over thar. Then ye led us straight ter ther place."

Turner Stacy had clambered and slid precariously down the hickory tree without greater mishap than raw and bleeding hands. Once more on the ground, he ran like a madman, bending low in the timber.

The signal fire which he meant to build on the bald crest of Pinnacle Rock, would send out a flare visible to three states. Already he was twenty-five hundred feet above sea-level, but there remained a climb of almost a thousand more, and he was taking the direct and well-nigh perpendicular route.

Breathless, panting, vaulting from rock to rock; gripping, on faith, root and sapling, he climbed the steep stairway – where sometimes the earth shelved away underfoot – and he clutched wildly out for fresh support. Once there, with a fire blazing, he would have twenty or more of his nearest adherents riding to the rescue. They would rally on the highway just below the signal fire itself and there seek instructions – or signs. Fortunately for the present need, the night-riders had developed a mysterious but thorough system of communication. Their code of signals embraced a series of crude emblems, which to the initiated designated the zone into which they were called for action.

With frenzied haste Bear Cat laid and lighted his fire on the bald summit – pausing only long enough to see its red glare leaping upward. Then he plunged downward again.

Along the highroad, which, for a little way, he followed boldly, he placed peeled twigs bent into circles at various conspicuous places, knowing that those who were to come would read from them the course to follow.

After that he disappeared into the thickets again and traveled swiftly. Twice, as he hurried, soft-footed, through the woods he halted and threw himself flat while members of the pursuing party well-nigh ran over him. But eventually he reached a litter of giant rocks that stood like undisciplined sentinels guarding the cave's entrance. Then he stopped and listened, and when he heard no sound he crept forward obsessed with apprehension. He could not escape the feeling that this seeming of calm was dangerously deceptive.

Finally as he lay flattened and listening with all his faculties razor-edged, he heard something that electrified him – a woman's scream.

Clawing out his pistol, he threw all caution to the winds and raced for the entrance of the cave, and as he went he heard it again, now sharp and terrified, and he recognized Blossom's voice.

In his haste it did not even occur to him to feel surprised that no rifles greeted him. An exaltation of wrath intoxicated him with superlative confidence. He could meet and overcome a host of enemies! His voice rose in Berserker frenzy. "I'm a-comin', Blossom! I'm a-comin'!"

For perhaps three-quarters of an hour after Blossom had recovered consciousness the second time, it had pleased her captor to sit across the narrow way from her, gloating with a bestial satisfaction over her helplessness, while he poured white stuff from bottle to tin cup.

Despite the advantages of his position, Ratler had thoughts which were disconcerting. At his hands lay the final opportunity to glut his long-starved hunger for revenge: to glut it fully and in a fashion of beastly brutality, and for that he had waited with a singleness of thought and purpose.

But behind him to-night he must leave no witness, and as he approached his task, he found that his nerves needed the steadying of strong drink – and yet more strong drink. Out of the flask he was not only drawing appeasement of thirst, but fuel for determination.

For a while he had even dozed while the girl, bound hand and foot, had shudderingly watched his dissolute and depraved face.

Then at the end he had risen, stretched his long arms and sauntered insolently over, looking down while he phrased repulsive compliments to her beauty.

Tiring eventually of his cat-and-mouse deliberateness, Ratler leaned down and, putting his arm about her waist, drew her up to him. Then it was that with all the revulsion that was in her she had screamed not once but until his hand had choked off her breath – and at that instant she had heard the shout from beyond the cave's entrance.

Webb heard it, too, and hurled the woman away from him, suddenly brought back to something nearer sobriety by the shock. He wheeled and trained his pistol on the entrance. He had laid aside his rifle and there was no time now to hunt for it. Bear Cat would have to stoop and edge his way into the place and in the process he could be easily dispatched.

But while he waited Ratler's knees shook and when, instead of crawling, he saw a shape dive almost horizontally through the aperture his courage evaporated. The lantern was badly placed and it confused the man inside because it darkened the opening while it left him in plain sight. Ratler's revolver was spitting venomously but ineffectually. His hand was unsteady and his eye confused. The drunkard was reeling as he fought and after a dazed moment he felt himself caught in a bone-breaking embrace while the butt of a pistol hammered the consciousness out of his skull.

Turner Stacy was a wild man now. He stumbled blindly out of the cave dragging a limp figure behind him, and when he straightened up again and wiped his sweat-streaming face he had hurled the thing bodily outward, where the ravine dropped down a hundred feet.

He came back, palsied and shaken, and as he bent over the girl and cut away her bonds, his voice struggled through dry sobs.

"Blossom," he pleaded brokenly, "Blossom, tell me ye're only affrighted. Tell me thet ye didn't come ter no harm – fer my sake."

"I hain't hurt – Turney," she managed to whisper. "Ye came back – in time – jest barely in time."

She stood leaning weakly against the rock wall with her hands pressed tightly to her face.

The man stood, panting with excitement and exertion, but into his pupils came a sudden light of hope.

"Blossom," he whispered huskily, "Blossom – ye didn't … come over … hyar … because ye … because ye keered fer me, did ye?"

She took her hands away from her temples and looked at him with a white face, and in the unhappy honesty of her eyes the man read his answer. It was as if she had said, "My heart lies over there in his grave," and slowly, gravely Turner nodded his head. His face had gone gray, but through its misery it held a stamp of gentleness.

"I understands ye," he said simply. "I won't never pester ye no more." Then as some note of alarm came to his ears he wheeled, all alertness again and his hand was once more gripping his pistol.

"I've only got three ca'tridges left," he said to himself. "Hit's nip an' tuck now which git hyar fust."

As he reached the mouth of the cave a shout came out of the darkness. "Ratler, air ye in thar?" and out into the night went the defiant response. "No, Ratler hain't hyar, but Bear Cat Stacy's hyar. Come on an' git me ef ye wants me."

There was a silence after that, which he knew meant a parley. As he knelt waiting he felt a hand on his shoulder and with eyes still searching the ominous darkness he spoke low, in a trained effort at self-control:

"Blossom, hit looks like we're trapped. Ye came inter this peril in an effort ter save me – an' I fears hit's goin' ter be hopeless. I hain't got but three ca'tridges left."

"Save one of 'em, Turney," she said without a tremor in her voice. "Shoot twice ef ye wants ter do hit – an' then give ther pistol ter me. I kain't bear ter fall inter their hands again."

Then as they counted the seconds they heard another sound. From across the nearer crests lusty voices, raised in unison, were chanting. Turner even fancied he could distinguish the familiar words, "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." There was a clatter of gravel under dispersing footsteps and a low wake of frightened oaths – and the night had taken the attacking party to itself.

The Stacys had pressing topics to discuss. The activities of their young kinsman were no longer a matter of theory but a condition, and their clan attitude toward him must be determined. Was he to be regarded as a renegade or as one still entitled to recognition?

At the house of Joe Stacy on a cold winter day a dozen of the elders gathered to discuss this matter.

"Bear Cat's done cast off all regards fer fam'ly loyalty," cried out a turbulent spirit whose eyes and voice bespoke fellowship with the jug. "He's makin' war on everything we've ever stood fer. Thet damned furriner bewitched him, I reckon. He's jest rampagin' round with a passel of wuthless Stacys and Towerses alike, destroyin' propitty. He's stirrin' up ther cast-offs an' woods-colts of both factions an' he hain't nuthin' more ner less then a damn' traitor."

But Joe Stacy, steadier of balance, thrust himself into the discussion.

"Thet hain't no fa'r ner rightful statement," he said slowly with the weight of thoughtful force. "Thar's some amongst us thet don't hold with Bear Cat an' some thet does – but he hain't no traitor. He told us out-spoken what he aimed ter do afore he commenced doin' hit, an' thet needed courage. Myself, I thinks he's a man with a vision, an' afore we casts him out I aims ter be heered."

There was a hum of discussion and while it was at its height, the elder Turner Stacy burst tempestuously into the midst of the gathering. The old man shook with rage and his voice quavered.

"By God," he roared, "thet boy's plumb crazed. He's got ter be handled – an' checked. I suffered him ter bust up my old still 'cause I knowed ther new one was a-comin', but now he's busted up ther new one, too. Hit war a beautiful piece of copper – an' right hard ter smuggle in."

The group of elders regarded the old blockader with varying emotions, as he stood glaring with an ember-like ferocity which he genuinely believed to be righteous indignation. But Joe Stacy, his own brother, permitted his shrewd eyes to twinkle as he laid a calming hand on the anger-palsied shoulder of the new arrival.

"Wa'al now, Turner," he suggested dryly, "by yore own showin' ye lied ter ther boy an' consented ter quit stillin'. Hit's right sensibly like these-hyar other outrages thet's done been reported. He hain't nuver interfered with no man's lawful business yit – an' albeit I don't know who ther fellers air thet rides with him by night, I kin discarn right well by thar way they does things thet thar hain't no licker-befuddled folks amongst 'em." Suddenly the speaker's voice rose. "An', by God, I knows another thing besides thet! I knows thet some fellers roundabout, thet used ter be red-eyed an' sullen-visaged, kin look a man straight in ther face ter-day, clear-sighted an' high-headed. I've got a notion thet ye kin jest erbout identify these-hyar outlaws by ther way they carries thar chins high."

"What law air thar fer a man ter sot out compellin' other men ter adopt his notions, I wants ter know?" came the fierce demand, and Joe Stacy smiled.

"Thet's a fa'r question," he admitted, "an' I'll meet hit with an answer ther minit' ye tells me what law thar air fer blockadin'."

One morning Bear Cat was coming along the road when he heard voices beyond the bend, and turned into the brush. Looking out, he saw such a strange procession that he emerged again.

A man whose back was stooped, and whose face wore a dull stamp of hopelessness, trudged along, carrying a bundle over his shoulder and a dilapidated carpet-bag in one hand. Behind him trailed three small children, the largest two also staggering under rough bundles.

"Whar be ye a-goin', Matthew Blakey?" hailed Stacy, and the man halted. He opened a mouth well-nigh toothless, though he was yet young, and replied in a tone of deep depression. "I'm farin' over ter thet new school, with fotched-on teachers in Fletcher County. I aims ter ask 'em ter take in these-hyar chil'len."

"Hain't ye goin' ter house 'em an' tend 'em no longer yore own self?" was the somewhat stern interrogation, and the man's pale blue eyes filled suddenly with a suspicion of tears.

"Since thar mother died three y'ars back, I've done sewed an' washed all thar clothes my own self – an' gone out inter ther field an' wucked for 'em," he said humbly. "I've done raised 'em es right es I knows, but I kain't do what I ought fer 'em. When I has ter leave 'em I kain't holp but study, s'pose ther house war ter ketch fire? They're all sleepy-headed leetle shavers."

"Why don't ye git married again?"

The voice shook a little. "Young 'uns oughtn't ter hev but just one mammy – an' I couldn't nuver be content with no other woman." He paused. "Hit's forty mile ter thet school, an' mebby they're full up – but I've done been over thar an' seed hit." The weary eyes lighted. "God knows I nuver 'lowed thet thar war sich fine places ter raise chil'len to'rds humanity an' l'arn 'em all manner of wisdom!"

"All right, go on over thar, Matthew," said Bear Cat in a matter-of-fact voice, but in his own pupils gleamed a soft light, "an' when ye come back jine with me. I'm seekin' ter bring hit erbout thet we kin hev a school like thet over hyar – whar yore children wouldn't be so far away."

The father stood twisting his broganed toe in the mud. "I heers thet ye don't tolerate licker, Bear Cat," he said sheepishly. "Hit hain't nuver made me mean ner nuthin' like thet – but since my woman died I've done tuck ter drinkin' hit – I misdoubts ef I could plumb stop."

Bear Cat Stacy smiled. "Ter-morrer drink half what ye've been usin' an' next day cut thet down a leetle. Anyhow come an' hev speech with me."

Matthew nodded and Turner watched the little procession trail out of sight behind the gray screen of the timber-line. "All sore-eyed, an' all sickly," he commented under his breath. "Not one of 'em gittin' a chanst ter grow straight! Mebby over thar, they will, though."

CHAPTER XXVI

"Take a cheer an' sit down, an' light a pipe – unless ye've got a cigar." The invitation came from the Honorable William Renshaw, circuit judge, seated in the same small chamber adjoining the court-room in Marlin Town, from which Kinnard Towers had issued orders on that afternoon of Big-meetin' time.

"Co'te don't meet till two o'clock – an' I'm always glad to have the chance to chat with distinguished counsel from down below – I don't get down thar oftentimes myself."

The man to whom Judge Renshaw spoke seemed conspicuously out of his own environment in this musty place of unwashed windows, cob-webbed walls and cracking plaster.

His dress bespoke the skill of a good tailor and his fingers were manicured. He drew out a cigar case and proffered a perfecto to his honor, then deliberately snipped the end from his own. Evidently he had something embarrassing to say.

"Judge," he began briefly, "I've been here now for upwards of a week, trying to get this business under way. You know what the results have been – or rather have not been. I've encountered total failure."

"Hasn't the prosecutin' attorney afforded you every facility, Mr. Sidney?" The inquiry was put in a tone of the utmost solicitude.

"That's not the difficulty," objected the visiting lawyer. "Mr. Hurlburt has shown me every courtesy – in precisely the way you have. Your instructions to the grand jurors were admirable. The prosecutor consented at once that I should participate in getting the evidence before them, and in assisting him to punish the guilty when indicted. It is now February. Jerry Henderson was murdered before the first snow flew. Those subpoenas which we have sent out have for the most part come back – unserved. What witnesses we have secured might as well be mutes. The thing is inexplicable. Surely the judge can do something to energize the machinery of his court out of utter lethargy. I appeal to you, sir. We all know that Henderson was murdered … we all suspect who had it done, yet we make no progress."

Judge Renshaw nodded his head affirmatively.

"It looks right considerably that way." Then seeing the impatient expression on the other face, he spoke again – in a different voice, leaning forward. "Mr. Sidney, I reckon I know what's in your mind. You're thinkin' that both me and the prosecutin' attorney ain't much better than tools of Kinnard Towers… Maybe there's a grain of truth in it. I'm judge of a district that takes in several county seats and I ride the circuit. Before I was elected to the bench I was a backwoods lawyer that sometimes knew the pinch of hunger. You say Kinnard Towers is dishonest – and worse. If I said it, I might hold office till the next election – but more likely I wouldn't live that long."

As the notable attorney from the city sought to disarm his smile of its satirical barb, the other proceeded: "That strikes you as a thing that's exaggerated – and a thing that a man ought to be ashamed to admit even if it was true. All right. Do you know that when you took the Henderson matter to the grand jury, nine men on the panel sought to be excused from service in fear of their lives? Do you know that on every day they did serve all twelve got anonymous letters threatenin' them with death? They know it anyhow – and you see they haven't brought in any true bills an' I predict that no matter what evidence you put before them – they won't."

"Why were those letters not presented to the Court? You have power to protect your panels with every company of militia in the state if need be."

"So I told 'em." The reply was laconic, and it was supplemented in a slow drawl. "But you see they've known militia protection before – and that guarantee didn't satisfy them. They figure that the soldiers go away after awhile – but there's other forces that stay on all the time – and those other forces can wait months or years without forgetting or forgiving."

"And this terrorization paralyzes your courts of justice?"

"Well, no. It lets 'em run along in a fashion – as you've seen."

Mr. Sidney strove to repress his choler, but his manner was icy as he remarked: "That's a strange utterance for a judge on the bench."

"Is it?" Renshaw's quiet eyes showed just a glint of repressed anger. "Doesn't it work the same way in your district – or materially the same? Are your judges free from the coercion of strong interests? Are your jurors all willing to die for their duty?" After a brief silence he added: "Why, Mr. Sidney, you came here yourself ostensibly in the interest of friends and relatives who were unwilling to let this murder go 'unwhipped of justice' – them were your words. Yet we all know that you're the chief lawyer for a railroad that hasn't ever been famed for altruism."

The visitor flushed.

"While you were working up this evidence," inquired his honor, "did you go out and try to talk to Bear Cat Stacy?"

"Certainly not. He's an outlaw – whom your deputies failed to bring in when I had a subpoena issued. My life wouldn't be worth tuppence if I tried to get to him."

Judge Renshaw smiled somewhat grimly.

"Yes, they call him an outlaw – but he swings a power right now that this high court doesn't pretend to have. He's the one man that Kinnard fears – and maybe he'd help you if the two of you could get together."

"A lawyer should not have to be his own process-server," was the retort of offended dignity.

"No – neither ought a judge." Renshaw took the cigar from his mouth and studied it. Then he spoke slowly:

"Mr. Sidney, there's nothing further I can do, but – put it on whatever ground you like – I'll make a suggestion. I'm beginning to doubt if Kinnard Towers is going to remain supreme here much longer. I think his power is on the wane. If you will make a motion to swear me off the bench for the duration of these proceedin's – and can persuade the governor to send a special judge and prosecutor here – I'll gladly vacate. Then you can bring your soldier boys and see what that will effect. That's the best satisfaction I can give you – but if I were you, since you have no patience with men that consider personal risks – I'd talk with this Stacy first. Of course, Kinnard Towers won't like that."

Mr. Sidney rose, piqued at the suggestion of timidity, into a sudden announcement. "Very well," he said, "I'll ride over there to Little Slippery to-night – to hell with this bugaboo Towers!"

"If I lived as far away as you do," suggested the judge, "I might allow myself to say, Amen to that sentiment."

Mr. Sidney did not, in point of fact, go that night, but he did a few days later. Had he known it, he was safe enough. Kinnard Towers had no wish just then to hurl a challenge into the teeth of the whole state by harming a distinguished member of the metropolitan bar, but before George Sidney started out, the Quarterhouse leader had knowledge of his mission, and surmised that he would be sheltered at the house of Joel Fulkerson.

When the lawyer arrived the old preacher was standing by the gate of his yard with a letter in his hand, that had arrived a little while before. It was from an anonymous writer and its message was this: "If you aid the lawyer from Louisville, in any fashion whatsoever, or take him into your house, it will cost you your life."

Brother Fulkerson had been wondering whether to confide to any one the receipt of that threat. Heretofore factional bitterness had always passed him by. Now he decided to dismiss the matter without alarming his friends with its mention.

As he strode forward to welcome the stranger, he absently tore the crumpled sheet of paper to bits and consigned it to the winds.

"I am George Sidney," announced the man who was sliding from his saddle, stiff-limbed from a long ride. "I'm trying to effect the punishment of your son-in-law's murder, and I've come to your house."

"Ye're welcome," said the evangelist simply, and there was no riffle of visible misgiving in his eyes. "Come right in an' set ye a cheer."

Two days later Mr. Sidney rode away again, but in an altered frame of mind. He had met Bear Cat Stacy and was disposed to talk less slightingly of outlaws. He had even seen a thing that had made the flesh creep on his scalp and given to his pulses such a wild thrill as they had not known since boyhood. He had watched a long line of black horsemen, masked and riding single-file with flambeaux along a narrow road between encompassing shadows. He had heard the next day of a "blind tiger" raided, and of an undesirable citizen who had been sentenced to exile – though related by blood ties to the leader of the vigilance committee.

It was sitting in the lounging-room of his Louisville Club a week later that he unfolded his morning paper and read the following item – and the paper dropped from his hand which had become suddenly nerveless.

"Joel Fulkerson," he read, after the first shock of the head-lines, "a mountain evangelist, whose work had brought him into prominence even beyond the hills of Marlin County, was shot to death yesterday while riding on a mission of mercy through a thickly wooded territory. Since, even in the bitterest feud days, Fulkerson was regarded as the friend of all men and all factions, it is presumed that the unknown assassin mistook him for some one other than himself."

George Sidney took an early train to Frankfort, and that same day sat in conference with the governor.

"It's a strange story," said the chief executive at length, "and the remedy you suggest is even stranger – but this far I will go. If you swear Renshaw off the bench, I will name a temporary judge and set a special term of court, to convene at once. The rest comes later, and we will take it up as we reach it."

Once more, just after that, Bear Cat Stacy stood again with Blossom by a new-made grave, but this time he came openly. Those kinsmen who saw him there were of one mind, and had he spoken the word, they would have followed him through blood to vengeance. But Stacy, with the hardest effort of his life, held them in check. It would mar the peaceful sleep of that gentle soul whom they were laying to rest, he thought, to punish bloody violence with other bloody violence – and in his mind a more effective plan was incubating.

All that he would tell the grim men who met in conclave that night, ready to don their masks and fare forth, was that this was, above all others, an occasion for biding their time. "But I pledges ye faithful," he declared in a voice that shook with solemn feeling, "ye won't hev need ter grow wearied with waitin'…"

No Towers watchmen came in these days to Turner's house. They contented themselves with keeping a vindictive vigil along the creeks and tributaries where they were numerically stronger. Each day Turner came to watch over Blossom with the quiet fidelity of a great dog. There was little enough that he could do, but he came and looked at her with hungry eyes out of a hungry heart, speaking no word of his own love, but listening as she talked of her father. He sought in a hundred small ways to divert her thoughts from the grim thing that had twice scarred her life and taken the light out of her eyes. As he trudged back to his house, where he had again taken up his residence, after these visits, he walked with a set jaw and registered oaths of reprisal to take a form new to the hills.

As the days passed it was reported that on the motion of the commonwealth, alleging bias and prejudice, Judge Renshaw had vacated the bench, and that the governor had named a pro-tem. successor from another district – and called a special term of court, to sit at Marlin Town.

Kinnard Towers heard that news with a smile of derision. "Let 'em bring on thar jedges an' soldiers," he said complacently. "Ther law still fo'ces 'em ter put native names in ther jury wheel an' I reckon no grand jury thet dwells hyar-abouts won't hardly indict me ner no petty jury convict me."