CHAPTER I

John Redmond, the second, had just completed his education in a New York college, having been graduated with high honors, and was therefore prepared to go out into the world and set it on fire with his brilliancy. But the call of the great business world was strangely superseded by the "call of the wild," which had long since taken firm hold upon his young heart. Since his earliest recollections his soul had longed to go out into the wild Western country, and he was now fully determined to appease his adventurous appetite amid the great wild mountains of the West.

Thoughts concerning his future flitted fast through his study-ladened brain as the train sped on toward his home. Yes, he would go to the mountains and seek gold or coal where others, with less ability to find, had passed over the immense wealth which must surely lie hid deep beneath the great earthen mounds. This wealth, he thought, had been placed there by the Maker of the mighty earth, that his great skill as an engineer might be made known to the world. It was there for his own pleasure; it had not been intended that others should make the discovery. His training would enable him to make discoveries which others had not been skillful enough to make. The life would be just to his liking, and would fill a long-felt desire to invade the bowels of the hitherto uninvaded depths of rocky earth. It was not his intention to delay one moment; he would go at once.

The train sped on, and he reached his home in good time. There he was greeted with the sad news that his uncle, John Redmond, for whom he was named, had been slain by murderous Nightriders over in the valley of Kentucky. His tobacco crop had been utterly destroyed, his barns and out-houses devastated, his home burned to the earth, and as he was fleeing from the burning building, in an effort to save himself from a torturous death, he had been shot down in his tracks like a dog, a forty-four Winchester bullet tearing his heart to pieces.

What more would man need to set his soul on fire? What more would he need to raise his ire to the verge of distraction?

John Redmond, the second, stood with bowed head, listening to the terrible outrage; his Southern blood warmed to the boiling point. His heart beat fast, his teeth came together with a sharp noise, and his fists were tightly clenched. Revenge burned within him, his soul felt that the foul deed called for vengeance. In a twinkling his plans were changed. His adventurous spirit told him that his life's work had been found, that he must hie him to the country where his uncle had met such a hasty and untimely death; that he must seek out those who had murdered him and revenge the cold deed.

John Redmond had hardly known this uncle, having seen him only one time, but he was a kinsman, the same blood ran through their veins, their forefathers were the same, and he would be speedily avenged.

The younger Redmond sent agents into Kentucky to purchase land, and in a little while all preparations for a hasty departure had been made. The cabin purchased needed repair, but that would be done with his own hands. He would have plenty of time for all such work.

His intention was to go over and raise tobacco in direct opposition to the great association of good farmers. Let them do what they would, he would show them that he was a man of his own notions, and no set of men could run him, much less a body of uneducated "galoots."

Next you see of John Redmond he is crossing the country by wagon train. Slowly his caravan moves, finally reaching the place purchased for the future home of this man of strong desires and peculiar aims. The belongings were unloaded, and those who assisted him in the move bade him a successful ending and returned to civilization. While John Redmond, who introduced himself to this new country as "Jack Wade," was making preparations for a comfortable living, the eyes of the surrounding community were cast upon him. Slowly and untiringly he labored for a few weeks, getting everything in comfortable condition, seeking the assistance of the few loafing farmers, until matters were fairly arranged and everything fixed up comfortably for bachelor quarters.

If one should have been standing on the hill at a time very near sunset one afternoon, he could have seen Jack Wade, the graduate engineer, standing at the bars or gate leading from his horse-lot to a plot of ground used as a pasture for his one cow and one horse. He no longer has the appearance of a soft-skinned school-boy, but rather is dark and ruddy, the warm Kentucky sun having changed his complexion. He has on a blue shirt, soft, with collar attached, high-top boots, into the legs of which his corduroy pantaloons are stuffed, in the style of a true Westerner. He has one foot resting upon the lower wire while his arms fell loosely across the top wire. He is surveying with his keen dark eye the surrounding country, not having had time heretofore to look about him.

Over yonder, about one mile to the south of him, is a farmhouse; over to his right, and a little to the northwest, is another cabin. Behind him looms up the huge mountain, amid whose rugged rocks and green shrubbery much of his time will be spent. He turns and looks toward the mountain; there he sees another cabin, or small house. It is the home of a tobacco planter, who has one son and an only daughter.

Nora Judson has many times looked longingly down the dusty road toward the cabin of the newcomer and wondered what he was like. Her scheming brain found a way by which she could tell.

Twilight's shadows are drawing the day to a close. Down the cow-trodden road can be seen an old brindle cow, coming leisurely, switching her tail from one side to the other, nibbling the sweet tufts of grass along the side of the trail. On she comes, until she passes the watcher and goes out into the woodland just beyond.

Wade watched the cow until she was out of sight, then he sighed.

"It's going to be a fearful job," he said mentally, "but the thing shall be done. Not one of them shall be left if God spares me long enough to take them away."

As the last words left his mind he glanced heavenward, as if to implore the Almighty to aid him in a work which he honestly thought was for the good of humanity at large and for God Himself. He was honestly convinced that he was on an errand of great mercy, and the world would be made better and humanity live more peaceably among themselves, and more godly by the fulfillment of his plans.

"Not one," he repeated, "not one shall be left to molest the peace of the innocent ones in this great valley,"—he swept his hand about him tragically,—"in this wonderful valley."

He sighed again. The gloom of a departing day was gathering about him. The lonesomeness of a twilight in the valley was making a deep impression upon his young life and he was beginning to long for companionship.

The monotony of the hour was broken by the faint sound of a female voice coming from toward the mountain, calling, "Soo-cow, soo-cow, sook-sook!" The call came vibrating down through the valley to his listening ears. Jack Wade's heart gave one joyful bound because a human being, and that a girl, was near. Nearer and nearer came the call, until through the gathering darkness could be seen the form of a valley maid. Soon she hove into full view just up the road. On she came, calling the cow, until she stood directly opposite Wade.

Apparently she had not before noticed him standing beside the fence.

"Good-evening," said Wade pleasantly. A lovely flush covered her dark face.

"Howdy?" she replied. Then falteringly, "Seen anything of a old brindle cow down this away?"

"Yes," said Wade. "She's just yonder in the woodland grazing leisurely. I'll go fetch her for you."

"Ye needn't be so kind," said the girl. "I kin git her myself. Much obleeged."

She started on, unmindful of his grateful glance, after the cow.

"I'll go with you, if you don't mind," he said, "and show you where to find her."

She didn't mind, so Wade bolted, in athletic style, over the fence and joined her.

Old Peter Judson's daughter was a very beautiful girl. Jack looked into her face,—he had nothing else to do just now,—and wondered how it was possible that she could be so pretty. Though born and reared in the valley, and having known nothing of the outside world, she was fearless in speech and manner. Her form was indeed very fine for one who had not the opportunities to gather grace, her voice was musically soft and sweet, her face was delicately fair. She looked up into Wade's eyes with an expression of earnestness that was almost an appeal.

"Ye are the newcomer, ain't ye?" she asked, unabashed.

"I've not been here a great many days," he replied thoughtfully.

"Have ye come to stay?" she asked.

The question was very direct, but Wade felt no uneasiness in replying truthfully. He had come to stay so long as everything was pleasant for him, otherwise he might pull up "stakes" and leave when he thought the time was ripe.

Her next question was even more direct. She stood for one moment, surveying Wade casually.

"Have ye come to raise terbacker?" she asked.

"No," he replied, "I shall raise tobacco but in small quantities, merely as a pastime. I am here especially on account of my health."

She surveyed him again, her large dark eyes going over him from head to feet.

"Ye don't look unhealthy."

She was quite right. He did not look unhealthy. His large athletic frame was not physically disabled.

"No?" he questioned. "Well, I'm not quite dead."

He laughed and so did she laugh, her silvery voice ringing out through the fast gathering darkness.

"There is your brindle cow," he said, pointing to the creature which stood with neck bent, looking back at the two approaching figures.

"Thank ye for bein' so kind," she said, looking up at him with a grateful expression upon her countenance. Picking up a short piece of broken tree limb she went round the cow, crying "Hooey-hooey!" and striking her about the flanks. The cow, fully understanding what was wanted of her, started back up the road toward home, while the girl appeared to pay no further heed to Wade's presence, feeling that he had done his full duty in locating the cow. However, the latter followed her out of the woods, both of them trailing along slowly and silently behind the cow.

"I'm going to help you to get the runaway home," said Wade, smiling.

"Ye needn't," she exclaimed; "I know the road all right," a little sarcastically.

"But I also want to learn it," he replied, not in the least rebuffed.

"Ye might be losin' time for me, an' I don't want ye to do that," tenderly.

"I'd rather lose time assisting you than do anything else at this moment."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "ef ye want to learn the road, come on."

Her face flushed. She felt it, but Wade could not penetrate the twilight sufficiently to discern the crimson coloring.

"I do want to," he said, "and I wish I had such a companion to show me the way over the mountain and through the entire country."

Unheeding this remark, she said, "Hit's a little lonely, livin' alone, hain't it?"

"It is while I am not very well acquainted with my neighbors, but I shall become better acquainted soon. One cannot expect to be greatly elated at once, or happy altogether, until he knows his neighbors well."

"Nice folks 'round here," she replied. "Once you git to know them you are sure to like them."

There came a moment of silence.

"Do you live in the house toward the mountain?" asked Wade.

"That's Dad's house. I live there—have lived there for many years."

"You are very fond of the hills and ravines, I presume?"

"An' the brooks. They are the only companions I have ever known, except my brother, an' he's been in the saddle ever since I was old enough to have companions, or remember anything. They are my friends,—the cow and the dog, the chickens an' the geese, the ducks an' the turkeys, an' even the grunting pigs, are the only friends I have ever known."

"What a terribly lonesome life that seems to have been."

"Not to me; it has been a happy one."

"Pardon me, I should not have spoken that way."

"Hit don't make any difference how you speak," she said independently. "We are used to everything here."

"Who lives yonder to the south of us?" asked Wade, pointing in the direction indicated.

"Jim Thompson. He's a terbacker raiser, too."

"And who to the west yonder?"

"Oh, that's the place where old John Redmond lived. It's not used now."

There was a tinge of sorrow in the girl's voice as she spoke.

"What became of old John Redmond?" asked Wade, his own voice quivering.

"Don't ye know, hain't ye heerd?"

"Haven't heard anything yet; haven't been here long enough to learn much."

This untruth brought a flush over Jack Wade's face, but it was not seen by the girl, the darkness being too deep.

"He was killed by the Nightriders," she said, choking; "shot to death when his home was burned."

"So that's the course pursued with a fellow here, is it?" Wade's lips curled scornfully.

"Sometimes, an' sometimes they don't. It's accordin' to what the other feller is about."

"What has a fellow to do to bring about such an end as that served out to old John Redmond?"

"Nuthin'. Old John didn't do nuthin'; that's what the trouble was."

"Who are the Nightriders?" asked Wade, after a moment's thought.

"Say, stranger," said the girl at this juncture, and evasively, "here's my home, an' ye better git now. Ef Dad ketches ye here he mou't do to ye like them fellers done old John Redmond, so I says much obleege fer helpin' me fetch the old brindle cow home."

"I'll help you any time I can," he said.

"Thank ye," she held out her hand shyly. Jack Wade held it in his own, pressing it tenderly, until she pulled it away from him.

"Good-by," she said softly.

"Good-by," he returned, and then turned to face the lonesome gloom.

CHAPTER II

As Jack Wade faced about to return to his own cabin he saw a lone horseman coming up the road toward him, riding very rapidly, which was a custom in the country. No one ever rode slowly.

Remembering the girl's remarks of warning, he concluded it the height of wisdom to be seen as little as possible lurking around the vicinity, as he was in the community for an avowed purpose and he must be very cautious in order to fulfill his mission. He therefore stepped back into the shadow of a friendly bush and allowed the horseman to gallop by without discovering him. He turned and watched the rider, until he entered the gate through which the girl had driven the cow a few moments before. A sudden impulse seized him to creep back under the shadow of the trees and learn what he might from the conversation which he could now hear but faintly. This being a very dangerous proceeding, his mind was changed. He did not feel that he was thoroughly enough acquainted with the surroundings nor the people and their customs, and would take no chances until he should know more clearly what he was about—until he became more accustomed to everything and everybody.

The horseman he had seen was none other than Tom Judson, brother of the girl he had assisted in locating the cow. Tom rode into the lot, jumped from his horse in true Western style, threw the reins of his bridle over the saddle-horn, rapped the horse over the hips with his gloves, and walked on behind him to the barn. Nora was now milking the old brindle cow, and her father was inside the barn putting feed into the trough for the stock.

"Peers ye air mighty late git'n' yer milkin' done," said Tom. "What's ther matter of ye?"

He tapped the girl upon the head with the finger end of his glove, and he tapped her again because she made no immediate reply.

"Reckon I hain't no later git'n' hit done than ye are a git'n' home, seein' as how I'm most done now," she replied.

"Milkin' a cow hain't nuthin' like takin' a day fer to ride over the country a givin' warnin's."

"What ye warnin' 'bout now, Tom?" she asked, with much interest.

"Go 'long, gal. Ye ain't been raised in this country fer nothin'! Ye know what I've been warnin' 'bout well 'nough, 'thout axin' me. They's a-goin' ter be hell raised in this country to-night. That's what I've been warnin' 'bout. Now do ye know, durn ye!"

"I reckon I do. Who's a-goin' ter git it this time?"

"Aw, ye want to know too much all to once. Jest wait 'til ye see ther blaze 'long erbout midnight, an' ye'll know all ye want to know."

"I mout be asleep then." Nora spoke feelingly. She desired to know more, but hesitated to ask direct questions.

"Yes," said Tom, "I reckon ye will be asleep when ye think somethin's a-goin' to be a-doin'. Them durn big black eyes of yourn'll see everything in the whole blame valley afore mornin'. Ye kin see plum through ther mountain when ye want to, an' they'll be a plenty fer you ter see to-night, an' ther newcomer——!" Tom stopped suddenly and Nora looked hastily up, inquiringly, hoping to hear him finish the sentence, but he spoke never another word.

"What's hit about ther newcomer, Tom?" she asked after a moment's hesitation.

"Nuthin'. What'd ye keer if hit was anything about him?"

"I don't; but ye was about ter say somethin' about him. That's why I axed ye. I don't keer nothin' about him no mor'n anybody else." Nora did have some anxiety about his safety, however, but she did not wish to show this to Tom. She knew her brother's failing.

"Well," said Tom slowly, "seein' as how ye don't keer, I was a-goin' ter say that he'd git his fill of peekin' 'round here afore he's many days older, d'ye hear me?"

Nora did hear, and felt a pang peculiarly new to her pass over her heart. Having now finished milking the old brindle cow, she raised up, gave her a kick on the legs, and poured the milk into a larger pail conveniently near. For one moment she studied the features of her brother, then spoke to him tenderly.

"Now, Tom," she said, "what has ther newcomer done that ye've got it in fer him?"

"Nuthin'," sullenly. "Nuthin' 'tall. Thought ye didn't keer so much 'bout him?"

"I don't."

"Then ye air mighty interested in somethin' down that away. What made ye ax me that fer?"

"Aw, go 'long, will ye? Ef ye don't know nuthin', keep yer lips buttoned; ef ye know somethin', tell it, an' don't be so tight with yer knowin's."

"Ye air sassy, sis. Well, they hain't nuthin' ther matter with him, but he acts like he mout do somethin' ef he hain't checked fust. Ef he opens his mouth too much 'round here ye know good an' well what mout happen ter him putty quick, don't ye?"

Tom gave Nora a slap in the face and followed on after his horse.

Old Peter Judson came out of the barn and, upon seeing Tom, asked if he had given the warning to everybody. He had, he said, "and what's more, everybody'd be thar."

Nora took up her milk pails and hurried into the house, where she found her mother busily engaged in getting supper on the table. After straining the milk and putting it away in its accustomed place, she assisted her mother in the work.

Silence prevailed within her soul. Not a word escaped her lips as she busied herself over the meal. Somehow she felt a strange foreboding. Her heart was full of thought for the safety of the newcomer, in whom she felt a peculiar interest.

He, not at all like other men she had known, had spoken kind words to her, and they touched a tender spot in her heart. He had assisted her to find the old brindle cow and had helped to drive her home. What was it that attracted this wild flower of the mountain to this man? And what was it that caused the unhappy throb when Tom remarked concerning him? These remarks were anything but reassuring. She worked on amid her soliloquy.

Mrs. Judson could not refrain from remarking the contrast between this thoughtful girl and her own Nora.

"Ye air mighty quiet, Nora," she said, her face drawn up gingerly. "What's ther matter of ye, that yer tongue hain't a-waggin' as usual?"

Nora stood for one moment thoughtfully pondering, while she deftly dried, for the third time, the saucer which she held in her hand, then throwing the dish towel over her shoulder, she faced her mother.