"Ye'll regret that act, Peter Judson," he said. Giving each of them a sullen look, he was gone like a flash.

"Ther dirty wolf!" exclaimed Peter, shaking his fist after the retreating form of Thompson. Turning to Wade he asked: "What made ye take sich a fool notion as this, boy?"

Jack replied evasively. "You have saved me, Judson," he said, "and I reckon my life is in your hands. Do as you like. By my own foolishness I might have died twice, yea, thrice, in the last twenty-four hours, but you have saved me."

"What one man does for another is not to be talked about," said Peter.

"Jest ye don't be sich a fool any more. By yer foolishness, as ye call it, ye have got me in ther same boat 'long side o' ye. I 'low thar'll be no rest 'bout this hyar mountain till both of us is in our graves, fer I've waked up ther devil from ther deep o' h.e.l.l this day sh.o.r.e."

"I'm sorry to have caused you this trouble," said Wade regretfully. "It may have been better had that snarling wolf----"

"Stop!" interrupted Peter. "Trouble o' this matter is ther kind I like best. Let 'em tackle us when Tom's got his shootin' irons on an' his shootin' eye open; he'll pick 'em off as fast as they kin come. Ye mind what I'm a-tellin' ye, Wade. It's jest as true as what I told ye last night, only they'll be a little more keerful 'bout ther time they take ter burn Peter Judson's shanty. Did ye know ye air ten miles away from home?"

Jack did not know this.

"Well, ye air, an' we'd better be a-gettin' back. Somebody'll bring some hosses out ter meet us so's we won't have ter walk very far a-goin'

back."

"Must have been a long chase for one like you," said Jack.

"Well," replied Judson, "hit ain't so fer fer me as. .h.i.t is fer you, I'll tell ye that, Wade. I kin stand more walkin' right now than any feller in this kintry. What'n ther world made ye go ter sleep when ye was on sich a jolt as this?"

Wade turned sharply on Peter. How did he know?

"Don't ax ther question," said Judson, judging of what was on Wade's mind. "I saw ye a long time afore ye woke up."

They heard the sound of approaching horses farther down the road, and in a few seconds Tom and Nora Judson hove into view with the mounts.

CHAPTER VII

Jack Wade's new cabin was built much stronger and a little more elaborately than the old one. It was not at all like the old one, nor was it put up in quite the same location. It was built some twenty-five feet eastward and faced the mountain, while the old one had faced just the opposite. Besides, the new cabin had a small porch attached, while the front of the old one was plain. Wade sat upon this little gallery, pondering over the events of the past, much bewildered in mind on account of the slow progress he had made toward his desired end, toward the fulfillment of his avowed designs. He was unable to reason out many things mysterious, one being the deep friendship for him that had sprung up in the heart of that wicked old man, Peter Judson. It may have been, he thought, because of the fact that old Jim Thompson had ridden hastily up to Peter's cabin late one day and yelled to Peter that "they was now enemies forever, an' ther war would last 'twixt 'em till one or t'other was dead with their boots on," and Peter needed consolation and friendship. Old Peter, however, had replied to Jim Thompson:

"Maybe ye want a little of it right now. Ef yer do, jest git down off o'

yer hoss an' I'll give ye all ye want, ye beggar."

Angered to the toes, old Jim struck his horse with the spurs and rode rapidly away toward the mountain, firing back at Peter as he went. He would, no doubt, have shot Peter in his own yard, had he not seen Tom sitting in the cabin door with a Winchester lying across his arms, and he knew only too well that the aim of the slender youth was true. He knew well that, as old Peter had said, Tom would pick him off his saddle before he could even fire at Peter. Discretion, therefore, being the better part of valor, he bridled his anger and rode away without deigning to make reply to old Peter's challenge, cursing and snorting, breathing hot revenge against his enemies.

Wade knew of these circ.u.mstances; he knew that his own folly had brought about these conditions, and it was his human duty to aid the Judsons all he could, because they had been nothing but friends to him. The gleaming dark eyes of that girl of the wilds were ever before him, he could not rid himself of their presence, try as he would. They were an everlasting companion, and he was not altogether sorry that it was so, for in his most lonely hours he looked out into the dreamy s.p.a.ce and saw them, and they made him feel less lonely. He had spent much time with Nora, sometimes at her father's cabin, sometimes hunting over the mountain, sometimes angling in the brook, and sometimes up the country road between the two cabins. The old brindle cow had not quit getting under the wire,--at any rate, she got out very often, and always headed down the road, never toward the mountain. Probably she was a lazy cow and did not like the idea of a steep climb up the hill, though the gra.s.s was sweeter up that way. However that may be, she always went _down_ the road. Constant companionship had drawn Jack and Nora closer together, and Wade was teaching her in such a kind way that she took no offense whatever. He brought to her new books to read, which she devoured eagerly as a child learning its letters.

When she was not busy with some domestic duties, Nora was out in some nook remote from the cabin devouring the contents of a book. She was an apt scholar and learned rapidly. She would say "ye" only when speaking in great haste; other times she said "you." In one book that she read the heroine was a country girl like herself, and would say "hit" and "ye" like she did, and she discovered in reading that she was not properly educated as to the use of language, therefore she applied herself the harder. She took special delight in this book, and read it the second time, being greatly pleased with the sweet little character, the country girl, who, before the novel closed, went off to college in the big city and, after a few years study, came home refined in manners and neat in dress. This same country girl was ever afterward her own model, because she became gentle and kind, and married the millionaire's son, to the satisfaction of all concerned. Jack Wade was in her mind's eye the very hero himself. She thought of him as a big-hearted, generously kind boy, whose sole hope was to benefit someone else, though he might be personally affected by so doing.

She thought of him as a great wise man who was spending his life out in the mountains for her special benefit. She thought of him by day, and when night came on, the hideous night of darkness, when her awakened soul longed for light, she thought of him. When her body pa.s.sed into the oblivion of peaceful slumber she dreamed of him, of the man who had done so much toward enlightening her mind and soul, who had brought her out of the darkness and set her upon a high pinnacle of knowledge, where light shone in on her benighted being and she saw. He had spoken to her of G.o.d, a great G.o.d, Maker of the mighty universe, as no one had ever before spoken to her. The light shone brighter from his eyes as he talked to her about things of which she had hitherto known nothing. The song of the little bird in the tree top, the little wild bird, sounded sweeter than it was wont in times past. Their notes came clearer and had a new meaning. Her darkened soul opened wide its closed windows and the light came streaming in until she saw through different eyes. Her interest in the wild, golden-headed flowers that grew in great profusion along the ridge of the mountain grew day by day, until she felt she must plant a garden of her own somewhere near the cabin, so that she could go out and work among the flowers and talk with them. Her very soul yearned for something new, something it had not felt before.

She was kind and tender toward her big brown dog, in which she now saw a true friend. They had always been friends in a way, but that way had been to kick him and speak gruffly to him. Those things she did no more.

She did not kick the old brindle cow in the flanks and say: "Saw thar, durn ye! or ye'll git yer head knock off," but the rather she pushed her gently and spoke kindly to her. "Be very careful, Brindle, don't step on my toes or turn the milk over, I am not going to hurt you." So the old brindle cow saw and knew and quit blinking her eyes when Nora was near.

She formerly began blinking when she saw the girl coming out of the house with the milk pails, because she had grown to expect a crack over the solid portion of her head before the milking process began. The consequence of a life of continued abuses was that she had formed a great habit of blinking both eyes when near one of the feminine gender.

Not so any more. The old cow naturally wondered at the strange, sweet change, her own life was made the more peaceful because no one set the dog to biting her heels every time she poked her head around the corner of the barn, and she did not kick out her "hind" leg every time the dog came near, because the dog didn't bite her any more. They were good friends now. A cow has good sense, and can do a terrible sight of thinking when it comes to the way things are going on about milking time. Her teats were not whacked with a big stick on a cold winter day any more because she did not feel like standing in one position so long, and peace reigned within her heart.

Nora's touch became more gentle and she squeezed the lacteal fluid from the bovine with more consideration, all the while humming sweet songs softly to herself, and the old cow heard and knew. She heard Nora say "father" when she spoke to old Peter. Only on rare occasions would she spurt out in the same old way with "Dad," and then be sorry because she had allowed herself to become agitated to such an extent. Everyone noted the great change, but none dared to speak, lest they should disturb her--except Tom, who chided kindly occasionally. They all knew and understood perfectly, and the knowledge was kept secretly in their own bosoms.

Jack Wade thought of all these things too, as he sat on his own little gallery looking wistfully toward the big mountain, with heart bowed in submission to the will of fate. Since his old cabin was burned there had come a great change in his own life. His desires had changed, his purposes seemed different, but he fought it all out courageously.

Murderous design was still lodged in his heart. He longed to commit that deed, which done and within itself is a power to bring a man's soul to the deepest depths of degradation and sorrow, to the very brink of h.e.l.l.

His certain knowledge that the savage Al Thompson was only waiting an opportunity to drive to the hilt the knife that would pierce his heart, or from ambush send a bullet from a forty-four Winchester crashing through his brain, weighed upon his mind. These thoughts did not deter him nor move him one inch from his original motive, which, if life was spared him, would be fulfilled to the letter. As Wade sat gazing out through the bright sunlight the big brown dog, Nora's pet, came gliding silently through the gateway and paced up before him. He looked around quickly as the dog; wagging his long, hairy tail, stepped upon the porch.

"What omen have you brought to me this fine day, Rover?" he said, speaking to the dog, all the while rubbing his hand over the s.h.a.ggy head. "What could have caused you to visit me at this hour?"

The dog just continued to wag his tail and lick the big hands that petted him. Rover had grown to like the big strong young man who was so often with his mistress, and thought perhaps a call at this time would not be out of place.

"This country is terribly agitated just now. Rover," said Wade. "You must watch your mistress closely, and should you think any harm is likely to befall her, you must come and tell me quick."

The dog wagged his tail, seeming to understand fully what Wade was saying.

CHAPTER VIII

Up near the mountain no one ever spoke to another concerning anything that happened. Not a word ever escaped the lips of those st.u.r.dy farmers.

If somebody was killed, that somebody was buried by his own people, and the wailing and gnashing of teeth was confined chiefly to the unhappy kin-folk. There were none to console them, no one condoled with them, they grieved in solitude.

In the village it was quite different, though even there no one dared to speak openly against an individual or a "click" or "clan." The fact that someone had been murdered by the terrible "Black ghosts of the night,"

or that the settlers had been terrified by the fearful, hideous howlings of the ravagers of peace, concerned everyone in the village, and old women talked of it over the fence, old men jabbered about it as they sat on dry-goods boxes, whittling on the soft pine boxes or squirting great streams of tobacco juice between their two first fingers, watching it until it struck the earth some six feet away or flowed gently down the boot leg of someone standing dangerously near. One old man, fearless on account of his many years in the country, did say once that "them d.a.m.n Riders ought all to be hung by the neck until they were dead." When he had said that he dropped his head to spit, and when he raised it again he was alone, every man near him having slipped quietly away, leaving him to his own way of thinking.

Men gathered together up the valley way, but they talked farm products straight and "wunk" at each other in a knowing way. There was one farm upon which an immense tobacco crop had sprung up, and the eyes of every farmer in the community were cast toward it. Not in many years had so many men pa.s.sed that way. Not in many days had there been so many clandestine meetings over the country, mostly around and beyond the mountain. What was it all about? It surely meant ill for someone, but for whom? That was the great question.

Jack Wade had gone to visit the city, Nora Judson was busy with her domestic duties, and Tom had gone on a jaunt over the hill, while the warehouse operator remarked to his companion that he had been appointed special officer, that the regular officers were afraid of their shadows, and would not move a peg, and the Nightriders were gathering again and destruction was imminent. It had been mere chance that had put him next to the business that bid fair to bring much sport, and he was going with his trusty rifle and faithful horse to see if he couldn't arrest a Rider before morning. As he was in sore need of a companion, he invited his friend to accompany him. The matter looked so feasible, and as the Riders had given both of them so much trouble, he consented to go along as an a.s.sistant to the appointed officer. Of what was to happen he received perfect knowledge from the warehouse man.

Wade also was deeply interested. A certain barn with its contents of high-priced tobacco was to be burned by two lone Nightriders, and this fact--that there would be only two--was hailed with great pleasure, for the chances would not only be equal, but the advantage was decidedly with the officers, as they were cognizant of the raid contemplated, while the Riders were totally in the dark regarding their knowledge or ident.i.ty.

The arrangement was that they should meet at a certain place and proceed out of Guthrie to a given point some distance out and some distance still on the other side of the mountain. Wade knew the exact spot where they were to locate themselves in hiding until the Nightriders should pa.s.s, and he also knew what their intentions were after that. His great longing to learn something more of the terrible Nightriders, and of the manner in which it was expected they would be handled on this occasion, caused him to make a hurried trip back to his own cabin to make hasty arrangements for a long ride through the darkness of night. When his clock tolled the hour nine he began that tedious lonesome ride down the valley. Uppermost in his mind was the movements and actions of the Nightriders, who had become active again and who were threatening with utter destruction the entire country, composed of twenty-two counties of the richest soil in Kentucky and Tennessee. Notices had been posted everywhere, giving warning to the open raisers, stating that no man should attempt to sell tobacco openly, that he who was not for the a.s.sociation was against it. One was found on Wade's own gatepost, and he gave it deep, thoughtful consideration. He had fully intended raising a very large crop of tobacco the coming season, and he intended doing it openly, unless his mind should be changed in the meantime.

Wade rode on, putting his horse to a trot, then as time went by, to a gallop. Had it not been for the brightly shining little stars the night would have been utter darkness, but the twinkling little heavenly bodies lighted the way sufficiently well to allow of seeing and keeping the beaten road. Thoughts concerning happenings of the past were flitting rapidly through Wade's brain, tumbling one over the other in rapid succession, in their great hurry to get through, while he traveled on, unmindful of the awful darkness that encompa.s.sed him or of the blood-curdling deeds which would be committed on that memorable night.

At last, tired and sore, he reached the vicinity of the barn soon to be burned and the vicinity of a community where murder, foul to some and gladsome to the hearts of others, would soon be committed.

Jack Wade had learned through his experiences of the past to be very cautious on all occasions, more especially on occasions like the present one, therefore he sought out a quiet dark spot in the brush and waited silently to see what should happen. The distance he had traveled brought him very late at the goal, so he was compelled to wait not long before he saw sights enough to weaken the heart of the strongest man.

The little stars twinkled on from their orbits in the sky, the cuckoo sang from a remote distance, the woodland animals scampered over their runs, making the dry leaves crack as they flurried on. Suddenly a faint light arose over the woodland, and grew until it lighted up the whole country around the anxious watcher. It became so very light where he was that he was compelled to recede deeper into the underbrush. The great flame grew brighter and higher, leaping heavenward at every bound, making a terrible, cracking noise. Wade's heart beat heavily against his bosom, but he watched on. Not a great way off he heard the cracking of the dry twigs. It was much heavier than the noise made by scampering animals, and he knew instantly that the two officers were near. He continued to keep silent, listening breathlessly to every sound. Soon there came to his listening ears the heavy sound or clatter of rapidly retreating horses. The riders pa.s.sed his hiding-place and on they flew, pushing their horses to full speed over the rough trail. Then, "Oh, G.o.d!" In the next moment there rang out upon the midnight stillness the terrible "crack!" of a death-dealing rifle, and in response a boy went down to the earth heavily. Some mother's idol received a wound that would take him hurriedly into eternity. His horse sped on, riderless.

Another "crack!" from those rifles and the other horse was killed in his tracks, falling near the dying lad, while his rider, untouched, unhurt, darted off into the thick sheltering brush and was seen no more.

Those who had fired the shots that caused death and sorrow, weeping and wailing, listened not to the wailing of the dying boy, heard not his pitiful moaning, nor his distressed cry for a.s.sistance, but thinking of themselves dashed off through the brush, to safety, in an opposite direction. They had _got a Rider_, and were evidently well satisfied with their night's work. _Fiends_, may the tortures of h.e.l.l be theirs!

Jack Wade, born with a love for his fellow-man, did hear and heed that dying wail, and slowly led his own good steed out from his hiding-place and on to the groaning one. He bent over him and looked into his contorted face with a heavy, sorrowful heart. He was not dead, but dying.

"Friend or foe," whispered the youth, as Wade appeared over him.