Knowing but little of his brother in the hills, the man from the lowland Blue-grass was puzzled and amazed that all feeling he could observe was directed solely at the deed itself and not at the way it was done.  No indignation was expressed at what was to him the contemptible cowardice involved—­indeed little was said at all, but the colonel could feel the air tense and lowering with a silent deadly spirit of revenge, and he would have been more puzzled had he known the indifference on the part of the Hawns as to whether the act of revenge should take precisely the same form of ambush.  For had the mountain code of ethics been explained to him—­that what was fair for one was fair for the other; that the brave man could not fight the coward who shot from the brush and must, therefore, adopt the coward’s methods; that thus the method of ambush had been sanctioned by long custom—­he still could never have understood how a big, burly, kind-hearted man like Jason Hawn could have been brought even to tolerance of ambush by environment, public sentiment, private policy, custom, or any other influence that moulds the character of men.

Old Jason would easily get well—­the colonel himself was surgeon enough to know that—­and he himself dressed and bandaged the ragged wound that the big bullet had made through one of the old man’s mighty shoulders.  At his elbow all the time, helping, stood little Jason, and not once did the boy speak, nor did the line of his clenched lips alter, nor did the deadly look in his smouldering eyes change.  One by one the guests left, the colonel sent Marjorie and Gray to bed, grandmother Hawn sent Mavis, and when all was done and the old man was breathing heavily on a bed in the corner and grandmother Hawn was seated by the fire with a handkerchief to her lips, the colonel heard the back door open and little Jason, too, was gone—­gone on business of his own.  He had seen Steve Hawn’s face at the window, his mother had slipped out on the porch while he was dancing, and neither had appeared again.  So little Jason went swiftly through the dark, over the ridge and up the big creek to the old circuit rider’s house, where the stream forked.  All the way he had seen the tracks of a horse which he knew to be Steve’s, for the right forefoot, he knew, had cast a shoe only the day before.

At the forks the tracks turned up the branch that led to Steve’s cabin and not up toward his mother’s house.  If Steve had his mother behind him, he had taken her to his own home; that, in Mavis’s absence, was not right, and, burning with sudden rage, the boy hurried up the branch.  The cabin was dark and at the gate he gave a shrill, imperative “Hello!”

In a few minutes the door opened and the tousled head of his cousin was thrust forth.

“Is my mammy hyeh?” he called hotly.

“Yep,” drawled Steve.

“Well, tell her I’m hyeh to take her home!” There was no sound from within.