“Tell kingdom come ur Gabriel blows his horn,” laughed the old man, and all his family and the neighbors who were sharing the hospitality of his wagon joined in the laugh.  It was a thing the old man would have said to anybody else and in the same tone, but it irritated Westerfelt.  The silence of the couple behind convinced him that it was Bates and Harriet, for men in love do not talk much.  Mrs. Wambush turned her head and took off her gingham bonnet to get a good look at the man her son had tried twice to kill.  Her features were so much like Toot’s that Westerfelt, who had never seen her before, thought he had discovered the fountain-head of the young outlaw’s villany.  He glanced aside, but she continued to stare at him fixedly.

“How are you comin’ on?” she asked him, slapping a little girl in a blue homespun dress who was about to fall out of the wagon.

“Pretty well, thank you,” replied Westerfelt, coldly.  He had detected a suggestion of a sneer about the old woman’s lips.

“Cuts is a bad thing,” she went on.  “I reckon yore doctor bill run up to some more’n you’d ‘a’ lost that day by jest lettin’ my boy have some’n to ride out home in.”

“Dry up!” thundered old Wambush.  He climbed back into his chair and glared at her.  “Ef you dare open yore mouth agin, I’ll make you git right out an’ make tracks fer home.”  The old woman jerked on her bonnet and turned her face towards the horses.  Old Wambush looked over his shoulder at Westerfelt, a sheepish look on his face.

“Don’t pay no ’tention to her,” he apologized; “she’s had the very old scratch in ’er ever since Toot was run off; I don’t harbor no ill-will, but women ain’t got no reason nohow.  They never seem to know when peace is declared.  It’s the women that’s keepin’ up all the strife twixt North and South right now.  Them that shouldered muskets an’ fit an’ lived on hard-tack don’t want no more uv it.”

Westerfelt said nothing.

“Hello thar!” The voice was from the buggy behind.  Westerfelt turned.  It was Frank Hansard with Jennie Wynn.

“Hello!” replied Westerfelt, greatly relieved,

“Whyn’t you git down an’ fight it out while we’re waitin’?” jested Frank, in a low voice.  “Anything ’u’d be better’n this; but I’ll tell you, she’s a regular wild-cat, if you don’t know it.”

Westerfelt smiled, but made no response.  Beyond Hansard’s buggy was another, and in it sat Harriet and Bates; there was no mistaking the old-fashioned silk hat and Harriet’s gray dress.  It seemed to Westerfelt that the blood in his veins stopped at the sight of the couple sitting so close together.

“Can you see who’s behind us?” asked Jennie, mischievously.  “It’s undoubtedly a case; they’ve been connoodlin’ all the way an’ didn’t even have the politeness to speak to us as we passed ’em in the big road.”

Westerfelt pretended not to hear.  Old Wambush’s wagon had started.  The camp-ground was soon reached.  As Westerfelt was hitching his horse to a tree, he could not help seeing Bates and Harriet in the bushes not far away.  Bates was taking his horse out of the shafts and looping up the traces, and she stood looking on.  Westerfelt knew that Jake or Washburn would attend to his horse, so he walked on to the spot where the service was to be held.