With the spring new forces pulsed the mountain air. The spirit of

the times reached even Hazlan. A railroad was coming up the

river, so the rumor was. When winter broke, surveyors had

appeared; after them, mining experts and purchasers of land. New

ways of bread-making were open to all, and the feudsman began to

see that he could make food and clothes more easily and with less

danger than by sleeping with his rifle in the woods, and by fighting

men who had done him no harm. Many were tired of fighting;

many, forced into the feud, had fought unwillingly. Others had

sold their farms and wild lands, and were moving toward the Blue

Grass or westward. The desperadoes of each faction had fled the

law or were in its clutches. The last Lewallen was dead; the last

Stetson was hidden away in the mountains. There were left

Mareums and Braytons, but only those who felt safest from

indictment; in these a spirit of hostility would live for years, and,

roused by passion or by drink, would do murder now on one side

of the Cumberland and now on the other; but the Stetson-Lewallen

feud, old Gabe believed, was at an end at last.

All these things the miller told Rome Stetson, who well knew what

they meant. He was safe enough from the law while the people

took no part in his capture, but he grew apprehensive when he

learned of the changes going on in the valley. None but old Gabe

knew where he was, to be sure, but with his own enemies to guide

the soldiers he could not hope to remain hidden long. Still, with

that love of the mountains characteristic of all races born among

them, he clung to his own land. He would rather stay where he

was the space of a year and die, he told old Gabe passionately,

than live to old age in another State.

But there was another motive, and he did not hide it. On the other

side he had one enemy left-the last, too, of her race-who was more

to him than his own dead kindred, who hated him, who placed at

his door all her sorrows. For her he was living like a wolf in a

cave, and old Gabe knew it. Her-he would not leave.

"I tell ye, Rome, you've got to go. Thar's no use talkin'. Court

comes the fust Monday in June. The soldiers ull be hyeh. Hit won't

be safe. Thar's some that s'picions I know whar ye air now, 'n'

they'll be spyin', 'n' mebbe hit'll git me into trouble, too, aidin' 'n'

abettin' a man to git away who air boun' to the law."

The two were sitting on the earthen floor of the cave before a little

fire, and Rome, with his hands about his knees and his brows

knitted, was staring into the yellow blaze. His unshorn hair fell to

his shoulders; his face was pale from insufficient food and

exercise, and tense with a look that was at once caged and defiant.

"Uncle Gabe," he asked, quietly, for the old man's tone was a little

querulous, " air ye sorry ye holped me? Do ye blame me fer whut

I've done?"

"No," said the old miller, answering both questions; "I don't. I

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