own, and there was none to dispute the claim for the passing of half a century.  Now those who had passed on were coming back again—­the first trespasser long, long ago with a yellow document that he called a “blanket-patent” and which was all but the bringer’s funeral shroud, for the old hunter started at once for his gun and the stranger with his patent took to flight.  Years later a band of young men with chain and compass had appeared in the hills and disappeared as suddenly, and later still another band, running a line for a railroad up the river, found old Jason at the foot of a certain oak with his rifle in the hollow of his arm and marking a dead-line which none dared to cross.

Later still, when he understood, the old man let them pass, but so far nobody had surveyed his land, and now, instead of trying to take, they were trying to purchase.  From all points of the compass the “furriners” were coming now, the rock-pecker’s prophecy was falling true, and at that moment the boy’s hot words were having an effect on every soul who had heard them.  Old Jason’s suspicions were alive again; he was short of speech when his nephew, Arch Hawn, brought up the sale of his lands, and Arch warned the colonel to drop the subject for the night.  The colonel’s mind had gone back to a beautiful woodland at home that he thought of clearing off for tobacco—­he would put that desecration off a while.  The stranger boy, too, was wondering vaguely at the fierce arraignment he had heard; the stranger girl was curiously haunted by memories of the queer little mountaineer, while Mavis now had a new awe of her cousin that was but another rod with which he could go on ruling her.

Jason’s mother was standing in the door when he walked through the yard gate.  She went back into the cabin when she saw him coming, and met him at the door with a switch in her hand.  Very coolly the lad caught it from her, broke it in two, threw it away, and picking up a piggin went out without a word to milk, leaving her aghast and outdone.  When he came back, he asked like a man if supper was ready, and as to a man she answered.  For an hour he pottered around the barn, and for a long while he sat on the porch under the stars.  And, as always at that hour, the same scene obsessed his memory, when the last glance of his father’s eye and the last words of his father’s tongue went not to his wife, but to the white-faced little son across the foot of the death-bed: 

“You’ll git him fer me—­some day.”

“I’ll git him, pap.”

Those were the words that passed, and in them was neither the asking nor the giving of a promise, but a simple statement and a simple acceptance of a simple trust, and the father passed with a grim smile of content.  Like every Hawn the boy believed that a Honeycutt was the assassin, and in the solemn little fellow one purpose hitherto had been supreme—­to discover the man and avenge the deed; and though, young as he was, he was yet too cunning to let the fact be known, there was no male of the name old enough to pull the trigger, not even his mother’s brother, Babe, who did not fall under the ban of the boy’s deathless hate and suspicion.  And always his mother, though herself a Honeycutt, had steadily fed his purpose, but for a long while now she had kept disloyally still, and the boy had bitterly learned the reason.