Mr. Howitt whispered to his companion, “Let me open the door and talk to them, Grant.  Surely they will listen to reason.”

But the woodsman returned, “Talk to a nest of rattlers!  Jim Lane’s the only man that can talk to them now.  We’ve got to stand them off as long as we can.”  As he spoke he raised his revolver, and was about to fire a shot through the door, when a slight noise at one side of the room attracted his attention.  He turned just in time to catch a glimpse of a face as it was withdrawn from one of the little windows.  The noise at the door ceased suddenly, and they heard the two men running to join the group under the tree.

“They’ve found you ain’t alone,” whispered the big fellow, springing to the window again.  And, as a wild drunken yell came from the visitors, he added, “Seems like they’re some excited about it, too.  They’re holdin’ a regular pow-wow.  What do you reckon they’re thinkin’?  Hope they’ll keep it up ’till Jim—­Sh—­h--h Here comes another.  It’s that ornery Jim Bowles from the mouth of Indian Creek.”

The man approached the cabin, but stopped some distance away and called, “Hello, ol’ man!”

“Well, what do you want?” answered Mr. Howitt.

“Who’s that there feller you got with you?”

“A friend.”

“Yes!  We all ‘lowed hit war a friend, an’ we all want t’ see him powerful bad.  Can’t he come out an’ play with us, Mister?” Another laugh came from the group under the tree.

Young Matt whispered, “Keep him a talkin’, Dad;” and Mr. Howitt called, “He doesn’t feel like playing to-night.  Come back to-morrow.”

At this the spokesman dropped his bantering tone, “Look a here, ol’ man.  We’uns ain’t got no time t’ be a foolin’ here.  We know who that feller is, an’ we’re a goin’ t’ have him.  He’s been a sneakin’ ’round this here neighborhood long enough.  As fer you, Mister, we ’low your health’ll be some better back where you come from; an’ we aim t’ hep you leave this neck o’ th’ woods right sudden.  Open up, now, an’ turn that there feller over t’ us; an’ we’ll let you off easy like.  If you don’t, we’ll bust in th’ door, an’ make you both dance t’ th’ same tune.  There won’t be ary thing under you t’ dance on, nuther.”

The old shepherd was replying kindly, when his speech was interrupted by a pistol shot, and a command from the leader, at which the entire gang charged toward the cabin, firing as they came, and making the little valley hideous with their drunken oaths and yells.

From his window, Young Matt coolly emptied his revolver, but even as the crowd faltered, there came from their leader another volley of oaths.  “Go on, go on,” yelled Wash.  “Their guns are empty, now.  Fetch ’em out ’fore they can load again.”  With an answering yell, the others responded.  Carrying a small log they made for the cabin at full speed.  One crashing blow—­the door flew from its hinges, and the opening was filled with the drunken, sweating, swearing crew.  The same instant, Young Matt dropped his useless revolver, and, springing forward, met them on the threshold.  The old shepherd—­who had not fired a shot—­could scarcely believe his eyes, as he saw the giant catch the nearest man by the shoulder and waist, and, lifting him high above his head, fling him with terrific force full into the faces of his bewildered companions.