“Jed—­” The woman’s voice rose above its hoarseness.  “Jed—­it ain’t right!”

The man laughed.  He opened his mouth wide, until his yellow fangs gleamed in the sun, and the girl with the axe paused for a moment in her work, and flung back her head, staring at the two before the cabin door.

“Right?” jeered the man.  “Right?  That’s what you been preachin’ me these last ten years ‘bout whiskey-runnin,’ but it ain’t made me stop sellin’ whiskey, has it?  An’ I guess it ain’t a word that’ll come between Mooney and me—­not if Mooney gits his thousand.”  Suddenly he turned upon her, a hand half raised to strike.  “An’ if you whisper a word to her—­if y’ double-cross me so much as the length of your little finger—­I’ll break every bone in your body, so help me God!  You understand?  You won’t say anything to her?”

The woman’s uneven shoulders drooped lower.

“I won’t say ennything, Jed.  I—­promise.”

The man dropped his uplifted hand with a harsh grunt.

“I’ll kill y’ if you do,” he warned.

The girl had dropped her axe, and was coming toward them.  She was a slim, bird-like creature, with a poise to her head and an up-tilt to her chin which warned that the man had not yet beaten her to the level of the woman.  She was dressed in a faded calico, frayed at the bottom, and with the sleeves bobbed off just above the elbows of her slim white arms.  Her stockings were mottled with patches and mends, and her shoes were old, and worn out at the toes.

But to Peter, worshipping her from his hiding place, she was the most beautiful thing in the world.  Jolly Roger had said the same thing, and most men—­and women, too—­would have agreed that this slip of a girl possessed a beauty which it would take a long time for unhappiness and torture to crush entirely out of her.  Her eyes were as blue as the violets Peter had thrust his nose among that day.  And her hair was a glory, loosed by her exertion from its bondage of faded ribbon, and falling about her shoulders and nearly to her waist in a mass of curling brown tresses that at times had made even Jed Hawkins’ one eye light of with admiration.  And yet, even in those times, he hated her, and more than once his bony fingers had closed viciously in that mass of radiant hair, but seldom could he wring a scream of pain from Nada.  Even now, when she could see the light of the devil in his one gleaming eye, it was only her flesh—­and not her soul—­that was afraid.

But the strain had begun to show its mark.  In the blue of her eyes was the look of one who was never free of haunting visions, her cheeks were pallid, and a little too thin, and the vivid redness of her lips was not of health and happiness, but a touch of the color which should have been in her face, and which until now had refused to die.

She faced the man, a little out of the reach of his arm.

“I told you never again to raise your hand to strike her,” she cried in a fierce, suppressed little voice, her blue eyes flaming loathing and hatred at him.  “If you hit her once more—­something is going to happen.  If you want to hit anyone, hit me.  I kin stand it.  But—­look at her!  You’ve broken her shoulder, you’ve crippled her—­an’ you oughta die!”