"A little over three months." "That was afore the June freshet, was n't it?"

"Yes." Emmet was looking above the man to the tree. Its trunk, as high as the first branch, was marked by smears of mud.

Grimshaw moved his head slowly up and down.

"Yes, I roosted up thar for three days. an' nights durin' high water." He grinned at the memory.

Admiration, despite Emmet's anger, was stirred by the grit of the man. "Without food?"

"I ketched one leetle fish the second day." Grimshaw spat on the ground. "Raw fish tastes like hell."

"That grape-vine, looped over the second limb, kept you from falling when you slept?"

A twisted grin parted the man's thin lips.

"They allus 'lows Yankees air smart,' he said as if to himself, and fell once more to dreary silence.

"Does you know ef she took on much arter-arter her man got killed?" he asked at last.

"They told me she grieved a great deal for her husband."

A snarl came from the man.

"He war n't wuth no grievin'. He war n't good 'nough for Molly." His lean fingers opened and closed about the rifle.

"Do you know any man about here who was?"

Grimshaw fell silent, giving no sign that he had heard.

"She's got over it by now, I reckon," he said finally.

"Before she had time to get over it her baby was born." Emmet saw surprise and something more. A look, human, almost soft, crossed the savage face, the only sign yet shown of a heart under the mud-smeared shirt. With that softened look a hope came-the hope that this glimmer of pity might be played upon. Despite the wild tales of Grimshaw's ruthless cruelty, stories of desperate acts that mile-stoned the man's reckless life, he determined to make the try. He would use Grimshaw's trick of pausing. It

"Every one in the county comes to our camp sooner or later."

"Happen to know Molly Dale?" Grimshaw's careless note rang false; he glanced sidewise at Emmet.

"No."

Grimshaw frowned.

"Never hearn of Molly Dale-Heath, I mean?"

"Oh, Mrs. Heath; of course I know her."

"What do you know about her?" He spoke quickly now.

"Nothing that is not good"- Emmet waited a moment-"and nothing that is not pitiful."

Grimshaw turned away, the lines about his mouth less hard, and lapsed into silence. Once or twice during the long wait he seemed about to speak; the muscles of his throat twitched.

to absorb the full misery Emmet felt the coming questions would bring. Twice the black eyes turned from their vacant stare to glare at him. He met the glances without the quiver of an eyelash.

"Dam' you, go on!" Grimshaw finally cried. "She's all right ag'in by now, I s'pose."

Emmet looked at the man without speaking for as long as he dared.

"It 's strange to see so young a woman with gray hair," he said.

"Ever since the night her cabin burned down."

"How 'd it ketch afire?" There was no wait now between his questions.

"They say"-Emmet drew out the answer-"they say you set it on fire." Grimshaw sprang up. One bare foot stamped deep into the soggy soil.

"It's a dam' lie!" he screamed. The rifle shook dangerously. "Was Molly burnt any?" He swayed toward Emmet to meet the answer.

"No; they got her and the baby out just before the roof fell in. She was sick that night, and had to be carried out."

Emmet was sure this shot had hurt. Grimshaw settled back to his squatting pose.

"Say, Bub, you don't like me, does you?" He had dropped again into his listless tone.

Emmet seized the opening.

"Like you!" he cried. "Like you! What have you ever done in your whole life to make any one like you? What did you do to Mrs. Heath? You damned coward!"

He had risen, intending to drop at the flash when Grimshaw fired, and take the chance of closing with him if he missed; but the man only grinned at him.

"An' folks says Yankees ain't got no grit." He looked Emmet over from head to foot before he added in a milder voice: "Now set down ag'in, Bub; I ain't a-goin' to hurt you-yit. I jes wants to say that whether you likes me or not, I never done that to Molly, anyway. What happened to her arter that?"

"It was storming the night of the fire; both she and the baby were drenched in the rain." Emmet paused, to end quietly, "So Mrs. Heath has another sorrow to bear: her baby died."

There was no doubt now. Pity, unconcealed, crept to the desperate face. "Whar 's she livin'?" Grimshaw asked drearily.

"I'll tell you where she 's living." Emmet's voice rang hard. "She 's living in the cow-shed, but she won't be living. even there much longer."

"Why won't she?"

"Because, for one thing, she 's nothing to live on, and, for another, she 'll die if she can't get away from this swamp country."

"How does she manage to git along?" "Well, she could n't work the place alone after you-" The flare of passion that leaped to the savage eyes warned Emmet. He shifted quickly to less dangerous ground. "She did washing for our camp while she had the strength, but she had to give that up. The neighbors help as much as they can. We boys chipped in last pay-day and got some things for her." Emmet watched keenly the man's face. "That 's one reason you could rob me of only eighty dollars just now."

The expected anger did not show. Grimshaw's eyes fell, to look long at the ground between his bare feet.

A bittern passed, flopping up-stream on lazy wings. Its discordant cry broke sharply the stillness.

"She takes things from folks." Grimshaw spoke as if no one were near.

"No, she does n't," Emmet put in quickly. "We creep up to the cow-shed at night and leave the things outside." "She allus was proud." Grimshaw still looked at the ground. "Is Molly purty sick?"

"The doctor says that if she can't get back to North Carolina, she will die before winter." Emmet took no pains to soften his reply.

The expected silence followed. Through a stillness deeper, more trying than any that had gone before Emmet waited. Behind him the swamp creatures crawled audibly along their damp pathways among the cane.

"They allus hangs a feller what 's kilt another feller, don't they?" Grimshaw broke the silence abruptly.

"No, not always; sometimes he 's sent up for life, and when there's the least justification, a jury usually acquits, especially down here, I believe.'

"There ain't much justification, is there, fer a feller what 's toted a gun for

months, an' every time he took liquor hollered out that he 's a-goin' to kill some un; and one night when all the folks is a-dancin' at a weddin', that feller walks right in, blazes away, an' hits the other feller in the back, an' him a-dancin' with his wife?"

"I'm afraid there is n't." Emmet waited for the usual silence, but Grimshaw's muddy brain had cleared. He went on doggedly:

"An' special' if the feller what done the killin' ain't never been no good to no un, an' folks don't like him, nohow?"

Grimshaw ended in his former lazy drawl. Emmet braced himself for another trying wait. The man surprised him by getting to his feet with an air of haste.

"Bub, go cut that 'ar saplin' over yonder." He pointed to a live-oak shoot just within the surrounding wall of growing

cane.

Emmet rose, and began to cut the sapling with a pocket-knife.

Grimshaw

"Put by that boy's toy." tossed a knife across to Emmet, its keen blade a full four inches in length.

"Now cut off the leetle en'," Grimshaw directed. "Leave it about three foot long."

Emmet finished his task and looked up. The rifle was at Grimshaw's shoulder, its aim dead on him.

"Shut up that knife and throw it over hyer, nigh me."

The closed knife fell at the man's feet. "Now, Bub, han' me that saplin' little en' fust; an' don't you go an' try no flingin' tricks with it, neither."

Emmet frowned.

"If you 're going to kill me, you can shoot, but I'm not going to let you beat. me to death. I've heard of some of your ways of killing," he said in steady voice. "Han' over that saplin'!" Grimshaw raised the rifle.

Emmet stood facing the muzzle with

out a move.

"One," counted the grating voice. The muscles of the boy's jaw stood out over his hard-closed teeth.

"Two." Grimshaw's bony finger stroked the trigger.

He

A light sprang to Emmet's eyes. handed the heavy stick to the man. Grimshaw grinned, and laid his rifle on the ground.

"Stan' whar you air." He raised the stick high and stepped quickly to Emmet.

Beneath the sunburn the boy's cheek paled. Every line of his figure drew tensely alert. He did not flinch before. the man's glare.

An instant passed; the stick quivered; then Grimshaw's thin lips drew back, showing the full length of his yellow teeth. From his corded throat came the grating noise of a hack-saw cutting through steel. It sounded the mockery of mirth.

"Grit clear through, young un." Slowly he lowered the stick.. Then his eyebrows drew together in question.

“Ef I had a-started to whack you over the haid, an' I would a-done it sure 's God ef you 'd a-flinched, what would you a-done?"

"This!" Emmet dropped to a halfcrouch and sprang. He struck hard against the man's body and pinioned his arms to his sides. Throwing his full strength into the embrace, he strove desperately to crush in his ribs. With one leg wrapped about Grimshaw's bare shanks, he strained to throw him to the ground. It was as if he had grappled with a tree-trunk. Grimshaw's naked feet, arching, gripped the earth; he stood in his tracks without a waver. His muscles felt harder than wood. As Emmet strove to tighten his hold, the rusty laugh sounded again. Slowly the sinewy arms began to move from the ribbed sides. Grimshaw's strength shocked the boy. He felt his grip tearing loose; inch by inch the hard arms moved out and upward, dragging Emmet's clutching hands farther and farther apart. He tried to dig his fingers into Grimshaw's back, catching handfuls of the hickory shirt; the cloth split from waist to neck. And always above the boy's panting breathing the rusty laugh grated in his ears. Suddenly the man's arms

jerked high; Emmet's last ounce of tension let go. A flashing shift, and Grimshaw sent him reeling backward. He landed on the wet earth at the far edge of the trampled cane. His shoulders hurt where the man's bony hands had been.

"Purty quick, purty durn quick, Bub," -Grimshaw's mouth shaped his twisted grin, "but you ain't got the strength to wrastle Buck Grimshaw yit."

Emmet wiped the heavy sweat from his eyes. Grimshaw showed no sign that the conflict had cost him an effort.

"Git up an' go cut the rope off'n the boat. An' don't you try no more tricks on me; nex' time you'll find out that bullets air quicker than you even."

Emmet started toward the river, then stopped.

"No, I'll not let you hang me!" He faced his captor, pale, determination in every word. "You can shoot, but I 'll not get that rope."

Grimshaw jerked the rifle to his shoul

Emmet stood motionless, his tightclenched hands spread apart, his face dead-white.

Grimshaw cocked the rifle.

The boy would not close his eyes, but turned them upward, away from the muzzle, to look into the broad, calm blue above.

"Don't stop to count," he gasped; "shoot!"

A report, a blast of hot air against his cheek, the whiz of a bullet, he was aware of all three in the same instant. Then the tight-drawn muscles of his throat relaxed. He looked at the man not ten feet from him, and knew that he had purposely missed.

"Go fetch the rope." loaded quickly.

Grimshaw re

Without a word Emmet went to the water's-edge. Grimshaw followed, walking backward during the return, his reloaded rifle always at aim.

Within the circle of trodden cane they halted. Grimshaw laid the cocked rifle

and the open knife on the ground before him. He took up the cut sapling, passed it behind his back, and held it in place by crooking both elbows about it. He stood erect, his shoulders forced back, his open hands extended in front of his body.

"Come hyer, Bub, an' tie my hands." Emmet, searching the man's face for some new devil's design, went toward him.

"Do you mean what you say?" he asked, halting just beyond reach.

"Tie my hands together," Grimshaw repeated monotonously, all the fire gone from his black eyes.

With a double running-hitch Emmet quickly bound the wrists and drew them as close together as the stick across the man's back would allow.

"You 're smarter with ropes than you air about wrastlin', you must 'a' bin a sailor oncet, I reckon." Grimshaw was grinning again.

Emmet stepped back out of reach. "Have you got me tied up now so 's I kain't do nothin'?"

"You know as well as I do that you can fall over on your side, push that stick out of place, and have slack enough left to use either your rifle or knife on me."

"That's so. You certainly air prutty smart, Bub." The laugh sounded again. Behind it Emmet saw seriousness come to the raw-boned face-or was it cunning?

"Jes take the en' of the rope-it 's plenty long-an' carry it round back of me, an' tie both my arms to the saplin' so 's I kain't git it loose. But keep in front while you air a-doin' it. You kin reach round me."

Before complying, Emmet measured the distance between the man's bare feet and the weapons. It was too short for his

purpose.

"Now, Bub," Grimshaw said, when the last knot had been drawn taut, "you 's got me hog-tied, ain't you? I'm jes about as dangerous as a dead shoat what's skewed up at the butcher's, ain't I?"

"I would think so of any one else; but when a man has ox-strength, I don't know."