He had waited three long years and he had ridden two hard nights and lain out two cold days in the woods for this.

And presently he reached out very carefully, and noiselessly broke leaf and branch and twig until a passage was cleared for his eye and for the point of the pistol that was gripped in his right hand.

A woman was just disappearing through the kitchen door, and he peered cautiously and saw nothing but darting shadows.  From one corner a shadow loomed suddenly out in human shape.  Buck saw the shadowed gesture of an arm, and he cocked his pistol.  That shadow was his man, and in a moment he would be in a chair in the chimney corner to smoke his pipe, maybe—­his last pipe.

Buck smiled—­pure hatred made him smile—­but it was mean, a mean and sorry thing to shoot this man in the back, dog though he was; and now that the moment had come a wave of sickening shame ran through Buck.  No one of his name had ever done that before; but this man and his people had, and with their own lips they had framed palliation for him.  What was fair for one was fair for the other they always said.  A poor man couldn’t fight money in the courts; and so they had shot from the brush, and that was why they were rich now and Buck was poor—­why his enemy was safe at home, and he was out here, homeless, in the apple-tree.

Buck thought of all this, but it was no use.  The shadow slouched suddenly and disappeared; and Buck was glad.  With a gritting oath between his chattering teeth he pulled his pistol in and thrust one leg down to swing from the tree—­he would meet him face to face next day and kill him like a man—­and there he hung as rigid as though the cold had suddenly turned him, blood, bones, and marrow, into ice.

The door had opened, and full in the firelight stood the girl who he had heard was dead.  He knew now how and why that word was sent him.  And now she who had been his sweetheart stood before him—­the wife of the man he meant to kill.

Her lips moved—­he thought he could tell what she said:  “Git up, Jim, git up!” Then she went back.

A flame flared up within him now that must have come straight from the devil’s forge.  Again the shadows played over the ceiling.  His teeth grated as he cocked his pistol, and pointed it down the beam of light that shot into the heart of the apple-tree, and waited.

The shadow of a head shot along the rafters and over the fireplace.  It was a madman clutching the butt of the pistol now, and as his eye caught the glinting sight and his heart thumped, there stepped into the square light of the window—­a child!

It was a boy with yellow tumbled hair, and he had a puppy in his arms.  In front of the fire the little fellow dropped the dog, and they began to play.

“Yap! yap! yap!”

Buck could hear the shrill barking of the fat little dog, and the joyous shrieks of the child as he made his playfellow chase his tail round and round or tumbled him head over heels on the floor.  It was the first child Buck had seen for three years; it was his child and hers; and, in the apple-tree, Buck watched fixedly.