"Why not? If I tell you I am here for my health, you don't believe that.

Why not say something equally as ridiculous?"

"n.o.body believes ye come here for your health, an' everybody might believe ye had an idea ye could rid the country of Nightriders. They're ready to believe anything of a newcomer. They think he's a spy, an' they mout think anything that they take a notion to think. My warnin' to ye is that ye better not say that, ye better take it back as a joke right now."

"You wouldn't tell on me, would you?"

"Ye better take it back."

"I won't take anything back," he said firmly, but smiling.

"Ye frighten me, Jack."

She spoke with all the tenderness of her heart.

"I don't mean to do that. I'm very docile, I'm just opening my life to you because I--I think I like you and----"

"Ye needn't," she said, blushing. "I know what ye would say. Dad don't like for the gentlemen to talk to me that away."

"Dad is far away just now, and if I say I like you, Nora, it is because I do, and your Dad can know that much if he so desires. I do not mean to deceive him, nor would I deceive you for all the world and this big mountain thrown in." He peered down into those great dark eyes, which met his gaze with unflinching, gleaming admiration. "It's so pleasant here," he added.

"Ain't it pleasant in the big city?" she asked doubtfully.

The outer world now held a certain charm which to her had not been known before.

"Not so pleasant as it is here on the mountain side," he replied.

"Listen, Nora. In the city you cannot hear the rippling waters as they dance down the rocky pathway over the hill to the stream beyond. You cannot listen to the song of the wild morning bird as he cries out in his great freedom from his lofty perch in yonder tree top; you cannot inhale the pure fresh air as it glides gently over the brushy way; you cannot hear the rustling of the dry leaves as you do here, therefore, it is not so pleasant in the big city."

"Ye gets used to that here," she said.

"You get used to the clanging bells, to the snorting whistles, and to the dusty, smoky atmosphere in the city, too, but there is still a difference. There you see people at all hours of the day and night busily rushing to and fro, this way and that, rushing, pushing, jamming, nothing more."

"I think I would like that for a while," she said.

"No, you wouldn't. Not long. It is not near so pleasant there as it is here, and by your side." He slipped his arm around her waist. She made no effort to disengage it. "It's so ple----"

"What's that?" she said, startled. A rifle shot, followed by a wild yell, broke the peaceful stillness of the mountain air. She leaned her head far over and listened. "That's Al Thompson," she cried. "Let's be a-goin'. When he's that away I don't want to meet him. He's dangerous."

She broke from his grasp and stood erect, listening.

"I have no fear of Al Thompson, nor any other man," he said, rising.

"Where this arm falls power falls with it. I am monarch of the hill just now."

He was dramatic, and she admired his great physique and brave words.

"Ye don't know Al," she said. "He's been drinkin', an' is not accountable for his actions, so we'd better be a-gittin'."

"If you have no confidence in my strength," he said angrily, "we shall go."

She felt a little hurt.

"I didn't mean to," she said slowly, "but I want you to go so's you'll be safe."

They started off, but before they cleared the opening that hideous yell broke the otherwise dead silence, and Al Thompson darted through the thicket like a madman, brandishing his pistol over his head, and with a roar of anger, cried out:

"I've got ye now, durn ye', an' ye'll never see daylight agin. Hit ther road, gal, while I lay him out like a dog."

Al was coming nearer and nearer as he spoke. Wade did not flinch, but stood like a man. Nora stepped in front of him to protect him from the onslaught, but she was like a twig in the hands of that maddened giant.

He caught her by the shoulder and cast her aside as though she had been chaff before a strong wind. However, he did not reckon on the powerful agility of his athletic antagonist, who, before the wild man knew what had happened, knocked the pistol from his maniacal grasp. One of Wade's fists then shot out and struck Thompson squarely on the nose. He went down, grunting under the smart of pain, while Wade stood over him like a heroic victor, not deigning to strike his enemy while he was down.

Nora's admiration for Jack's daring and skill grew stronger as she saw him standing there over the prostrate form of his victim, whom he could have killed had he chosen to do so.

"What ye goin' ter do with me since you got me down?" asked Al doggedly, not in the least defiantly.

"I'm going to let you get up so I can have the great pleasure of knocking you down again," Wade replied, with flushed face and animated voice.

Thompson saw the very streaks of fire as they shot from Jack Wade's eyes, and he made no effort to rise. He just looked sullenly, first at Wade, then at the girl.

"Get up, quick, you coward!" exclaimed Wade warmly.

"I'm comfortable 'nough here," replied Thompson. "If I get up ye might keep your word an' lay me out again."

Jack Wade was not fully acquainted with the mountain laws, the laws as regarded between man and man, or man and his sworn enemy. No other law counted for anything with the mountaineers. If any one of those fellows had got him in the same position, under similar circ.u.mstances, they would not have left enough of him to rise from the earth, in fact, there would not have been enough of him for his friends to gather up with a shovel, so utterly thorough would have been the destruction of his tenement of clay.

Thompson, seeing that he was safe from further attack, contented himself by saying, "I'll git ye yet."

"Come," said Wade, taking Nora by the arm, "let us now be going. Forgive me for such unseemly conduct in your presence."

The girl did not seem to understand. Such as she had just seen she had been accustomed to always, ever since she first remembered anything that was going on about her. Never before had she heard an apology when one man knocked another down.

"Ye couldn't help it," she said. After a few moments silence she continued, "He'll kill ye sh.o.r.e, ef ye don't keep away from him."

"No, he won't, Nora. He won't attempt it again. If he does, well--that's something else. I presume he is a Rider, is he not?" She did not reply.

"Come, Nora," said Wade pleadingly; "don't be reticent. Tell me all you can, being consistent, just as I have told you everything--all the contents of my heart to-day."

She could not resist the appeal. Tears were gathering in her eyes; they were the first Wade had seen in any eyes for a long time, and his own heart was touched. She opened her innocent life before him and told him all she knew. The women folks, however, did not know nearly so much as they often prided themselves as knowing. She believed he ought to know, more especially since the incident with Al Thompson, because it would be a sort of protection to him. He would know what to look for and how to bear himself.

"They aint a-goin' ter hurt ye, ef I can help ye," she said, sobbingly.

He understood her feelings perfectly well, and determined there on the wild mountainside, in the presence of the rugged hills and within sound of the running waters, to protect and aid this unopened wild flower of the mountain so long as he had power to do so, so long as this power lasted--so long as he had breath in his lungs.

This vow he faithfully kept. Men do things very often during life for which they are very sorry, do things which, in more conservative moments, bring on pangs of regret; but Jack Wade felt not the least regret because he had knocked down Al Thompson. He did not regret that act, but a tinge of sorrow and shame ran through his soul as he looked upon the crimson face of his gentle companion. The advantage he had taken in her moment of weakness would, no doubt, stand him well in fulfilling the purpose for which he had quit a life of plenty,--a life of sociality, and had come to the lonesome hills to live in a cabin all alone to carry out. The burden of it all was burning his own soul and gnawing at the very vitals of the life within him. He was a man through and through, a man who could have gained the topmost heights of the most elevated, elaborate society, but he had sought instead the quiet life of the farmer, a life alone in a cabin away toward the hills of Kentucky, far from civilization. Beside him rode in perfect silence, broken only by the sound of the horses' feet falling upon the dirt, a child of the wilds, whose own heart burned her bosom, that heart which had in an unguarded moment unloaded all that was most sacred to her and to her own people, all that had been held dear to one who had been taught in only one way. She felt sorrowful, but that same power which bound her when Jack Wade was away kept her silent when he was near. The rocks of the rugged mountain ridge pointed to her as she pa.s.sed, the little yellow wild flowers bowed their sweet heads in shame when her skirts touched them. She would not look at them, their beauty had in a moment flown. She would not look over the wild mountain scenery; its picturesqueness had departed. A dead shade rested over everything. She would not even glance up at the strong man at her side for fear his powerful gaze might pierce her heart as an arrow shot out from a strong arm. But why all this sorrow? He knew, he understood, and was silent. He looked toward her in silent admiration, and his heart smiled, but his lips moved not. To a.s.sure her was his thought, was the only motive of his heart, but he could wait until a calmer moment. The waters of life were troubled now, there was a storm upon the quiet sea, whose ruffled, wind-tossed waves were rolling high, and he must wait.

Behind them was the very hound of the devil, cursing and swearing uproariously. Every curse was an avowed vengeance, every breath foretold the death of someone. The murderous black eyes of the mountain wolf gazed on, the steel-like paws of the forest lion tore the earth where he lay, the savage instinct of an untamed Indian of primeval days filled his blood. The heart of the most ferocious beast was encased within his bosom, and vengeance, sweet vengeance, was his insistent cry. He rose from the earth where Jack Wade had laid him with that powerful blow of his heavy fist, snorted like a hyena, shook his fist tragically after Wade and Nora, then crouched as a panther when about to spring upon an unsuspecting victim or an awaiting foe, leaped high into the air, and, yelling like a Comanche on the war-path, darted like a frightened hare down the mountain side in the direction whence he came, spitting out fire and brimstone as he ran.

"She's mine, mine!" he shouted, "an' ye needn't think she hain't."

Down the other side of the mountain now rode two beings who seemed farther apart than before they knew each other, yet whose hearts beat as one, and who were in reality closer together than any other two human beings on the great earth.

When Al Thompson opened his lungs and sent forth that unearthly yell which vibrated through the forest down in the valley, the girl caught hold of Wade's arm. She quivered, he felt the emotion playing over her being, and caught the soft hand in his own.

"Have no fear whatever," he said rea.s.suringly. "He is drunk. When he comes out from under the spell once more, he will think nothing of this affair."