It was a tense situation that followed. There was no conversation. To many in the room a sentence of "guilty" would mean the end of their hopes of a winter school worthy of the name.

"If only we can beat old Black Blevens in this trial," Ransom Turner was whispering to his henchmen. "Hit's likely there's men who'll vote right in the school election this afternoon. It's a chance, though. It's a plumb uncertain one. Can't tell next to nothin' what men'll do."

So, while the distant mumble of the jurymen floated indistinct through the windows, they waited and whispered among themselves.

A moment pa.s.sed, two, three, four. Then the jurors came marching back.

In the midst of a silence that could be felt, the jurymen took their seats and the Justice said:

"Gentlemen, what is your verdict?"

"Jedge," said a tall, lanky woodsman, rising to his feet, "we came to the conclusion that there weren't no deadly weapons packed, not narry one."

There followed ten seconds more of silence, then came a rush forward to shake the young teacher's hand.

In spite of her efforts at self control, Florence felt tears splash upon her hands, nor were hers the only tears shed that morning.

"But I must be strong," she told herself, setting her lips tight. "The day is but begun. This is the day of the election."

The time for the election came.

Marion, having finished her short sleep and eaten a hearty dinner, was on hand as fresh and young as if she had not pa.s.sed through the terrors of the previous night.

To the two girls, born and bred on the plains, the election, which had reached a high pitch of excitement by early afternoon, was indeed a revelation. There were judges of that election who served without pay, twenty or more of them, not legal judges but men who were there to see that their side had fair play. Ten or more of Black Bleven's men were constantly present; an equal number of the Ransom Turner clan were there.

Not a word was said by any of them, but everyone knew that guns, not lips, would speak if things went wrong.

These men meant to see that the men of their side were permitted to vote and if trouble arose they were ready to fight.

All that quiet afternoon, as if before a storm, the air seemed electrified. In every heart deep feelings surged; hatred in some, loyalty in others. To every thinking man the situation held dire possibilities.

Here might start a b.l.o.o.d.y feud that would not end until scores were in their graves.

Men and women stood in little knots. Questions were asked in whispers.

Would they vote? Would some of Black Blevens' men dare to cross his will?

Would they dare? Black Blevens had large logging contracts. He would hire many men during the coming winter. Dared the men, whose very bread and b.u.t.ter depended upon him, desert him?

At three o'clock the question was beginning to be answered. The election appeared clearly lost for Ransom Turner. At three-thirty he was eleven votes behind, and no apparent chance of a rally.

Florence stuck grimly to her post, close to the schoolhouse door. Her heart was breaking. She loved the mountain children, had dreamed of a bigger and better school than Laurel Branch had ever known. That was all pa.s.sing now. In two or three weeks she would be bidding the valley farewell forever. Yet, with the grim determination of a Spartan, she stuck to her post.

As for Marion, she had learned what seemed to her to be one of the secrets of happiness. When one's greatest hope seems about to fail, it is well to quickly swing one's interests to others, less important perhaps, but not less entrancing. As the election appeared lost, she thought once more of the Georgia gold and the attic of the whipsawed house. She it had been who had removed the board from the ceiling. At that time, however, she had been suddenly called to other tasks and, having replaced the board wrong end to, had left without climbing to the attic at all.

"There's time enough now," she thought, "and who knows what I might discover? There's no need to stay here any longer. The election is lost."

Reaching her room, she at once shoved the bed beneath the loose board, and a moment later, candle in hand, found herself swinging along from beam to beam toward the ancient pounding mill in the corner.

"Don't see why it's here," she murmured to herself. "c.u.mbersome old thing. No good up here."

She put out her hand to touch it. Then she took it away in disgust. It was black with three decades of acc.u.mulated dust.

"Ugh!" she grunted. "Wonder if I could tip it over?"

She tried, and failed to move it,-tried once more and failed. Then she looked about her for some sort of a pry. Having secured a loose board, she attacked the task once more.

This time she was more successful. With a thump that shook the solid old frame from sill to rafter, the c.u.mberstone block rolled over on its side.

As it fell the girl's heart skipped a beat. What was that she heard?

Could it have been a metallic clinking? Had her ears deceived her? She hoped not. But if she had heard aright, from whence had it come? From some dark corner among the rafters, or from within the very heart of the old pounding mill?

At that moment there came to her ears the sound of hoa.r.s.e shouting. What did it mean? Was there to be trouble? Would there be shots? Would women be fleeing, men dying?

None of these. A strange and stirring scene was being enacted at the schoolhouse at the mouth of Laurel Branch.

A short time after Marion left the school building, as Florence stood looking away at the lovely blue of the hills and trying in vain to tell it all an affectionate goodbye, she heard someone exclaim:

"Look a'yonder!"

"Hit's them quare folks from up yonder beyond the stone gateway," said another.

At once the girl found herself staring in wonder at a strange procession moving slowly down the road. A score of mountain men and women, some on horseback, most on foot, led by a one-armed giant and a boy with an arm in a sling, were advancing on the schoolhouse.

"Bud Wax!" the girl breathed. "Bud, and the folks from beyond the gates.

What can it mean?"

The distance was short. She soon knew. As the giant's huge form darkened the schoolhouse door his deep voice rumbled a question:

"'Lection goin' on here?"

There came no answer from the surprised onlookers.

"Reckon I'll vote," said the giant.

At this move, every man of the watchers grew rigid. Whose man was this?

Many a hand shifted to a pistol grip. The election hung in the balance.

As this man voted, so would all that motley throng. There was no questioning their right. They lived within the district. Their votes could be sworn in. How would they vote? They had come with Bud Wax. That looked bad for Ransom Turner's clan. But there had been strange whisperings about Bud. He had been heard to say things about the teachers from the outside that were far from unkind. Could it be that, having been fairly conquered by one of these, he had learned a respect for them that he had felt for no other one?

As for Florence, her heart was in her mouth. Would they do it? Could they crush her hopes after she had done so much for little Hallie? They might.

There was no accounting for the ways of these strange people.

There was a hush of silence as the giant, having given his name and sworn in his vote, seized the ballot and made his mark.

Out of the silence there came a whisper:

"Hit's for Ransom."

The next moment the silence was shattered by a round of hoa.r.s.e shouts.

The election was won by Ransom Turner. The people from "up yonder" had turned the balance.

As for Florence, it was too much for her overwrought nerves. Dashing away into a thicket, she threw herself flat upon the ground to give vent to violent sobs.