“Hit’s Bud—­my brother Jimmie.”  She pushed him back toward the pawpaws.  “Quick!  Burn the wind!”

“What about to-night?  Will you come?”

“Hurry.  I tell you hit’s Bud.  Are you lookin’ for trouble?”

He stopped stubbornly at the edge of the thicket.  “I ain’t runnin’ away from it.  I put a question to ye.  When I git my answer mebbe I’ll go.  But I don’t ’low to leave till then.”

“I’ll meet ye there if I kin git out.  Now go,” she begged.

The man vanished in the pawpaws.  He moved as silently as one of his Indian ancestors.

’Lindy waited, breathless lest her brother should catch sight of him.  She knew that if Jimmie saw Roush there would be shooting and one or the other would fall.

A rifle shot rang out scarce a hundred yards from her.  The heart of the girl stood still.  After what seemed an interminable time there came to her the sound of a care-free whistle.  Presently her brother sauntered into view, a dead squirrel in his hand.  The tails of several others bulged from the game bag by his side.  The sister did not need to be told that four out of five had been shot through the head.

“Thought I heard voices.  Was some one with you, sis?” the boy asked.

“Who’d be with me here?” she countered lazily.

A second time she was finding refuge in the for-get-me-nots.

He was a barefoot little fellow, slim and hard as a nail.  In his hand he carried an old-fashioned rifle almost as long as himself.  There was a lingering look of childishness in his tanned, boyish face.  His hands and feet were small and shapely as those of a girl.  About him hung the stolid imperturbability of the Southern mountaineer.  Times were when his blue eyes melted to tenderness or mirth; yet again the cunning of the jungle narrowed them to slits hard, as jade.  Already, at the age of fourteen, he had been shot at from ambush, had wounded a Roush at long range, had taken part in a pitched battle.  The law of the feud was tempering his heart to implacability.

The keen gaze of the boy rested on her.  Ever since word had reached the Clantons of how ’Lindy had “carried on” with Dave Roush at the dance on Lonesome her people had watched her suspiciously.  The thing she had done had been a violation of the hill code and old Clay Clanton had thrashed her with a cowhide till she begged for mercy.  Jimmie had come home from the still to find her writhing in passionate revolt.  The boy had been furious at his father; yet had admitted the substantial justice of the punishment.  Its wisdom he doubted.  For he knew his sister to be stubborn as old Clay himself, and he feared lest they drive her to the arms of Bad Dave Roush.

“I reckon you was talkin’ to yo’self, mebbe,” he suggested.

“I reckon.”

They walked home together along a path through the rhododendrons.  The long, slender legs of the girl moved rhythmically and her arms swung like pendulums.  Life in the open had given her the litheness and the grace of a woodland creature.  The mountain woman is cheated of her youth almost before she has learned to enjoy it.  But ’Lindy was still under eighteen.  Her warm vitality still denied the coming of a day when she would be a sallow, angular snuff-chewer.