Among the men who danced at that party were Sim Squires and Pete Doane, but when they saddled and mounted at sunset, they rode divergent ways.

Each of the two was acting under orders that day, and each was spreading an infection whose virus sought to stir into rebirth the war which the truce had so long held in merciful abeyance.

Aaron Capper, who was as narrow yet as religious as an Inquisition priest, had always believed the Thorntons to be God’s chosen and the Doanes to be children of Satan. The bonds of enforced peace had galled him heavily. Three sons had been killed in the battle at Claytown and he felt that any truce made before he had evened his score left him wronged and abandoned by his kinsmen.

Now Sim Squires, mounted on a swift pacing mare, fell in beside Aaron, his knee rubbing the knee of the grizzled wayfarer, and Sim said impressively:

“Hit looks right bodaciously like es ef ther war’s goin’ ter bust loose ergin, Aaron.”

The other turned level eyes upon his informant and swept him up and down with a searching gaze.

“Who give ye them tidin’s, son? I hain’t heered nothin’ of hit, an’ I reckon ef ther Harpers war holdin’ any council they wouldn’t skeercely pass me by.”

“I don’t reckon they would, Aaron.” Sim now spoke with a flattery intended to placate ruffled pride. “Ther boys thet’s gittin’ restive air kinderly lookin’ ter you ter call thet council. Caleb Harper hain’t long fer this life an’ who’s goin’ ter take up his leadership onless hit be you?”

Aaron laughed, but there was a grim complaisance in the tone that argued secret receptiveness for the idea.

“’Peared like hit war give out ter us terday thet this hyar young stranger war denoted ter heir thet job.”

“Cal Maggard!” Sim Squires spat out the name contemptuously and laughed with a short hyena bark of derision. “Thet woods-colt from God-knows-whar? Him thet goes hand in glove with Bas Rowlett an’ leans on his arm ter git married? Hell!”

Aaron took refuge in studied silence, but into his eyes had come a new and dangerously smouldering darkness.

“I’ll ponder hit,” he made guarded answer then added with humourless sincerity, “I’ll ponder an’ pray fer God’s guidin’.”

And as Sim talked with Aaron that afternoon, so he talked to others, even less conservative of tendency, and Pete Doane carried a like gospel of disquiet to those whose allegiance lay on the other side of the feud’s cleavage yet both talked much alike. In houses remote and widely scattered the security of the longstanding peace was being insidiously undermined and shaken and guns were taken furtively out and oiled.

But in a deserted cabin where once two shadowy figures had met to arrange the assassination of Cal Maggard three figures came separately now on a night when the moon was dark, and having assured themselves that they had not been seen gathering there, they indulged themselves in the pallid light of a single lantern for their deliberations.

Bas Rowlett was the first to arrive, and he sat for a time alone smoking his pipe, with a face impatiently scowling yet not altogether indicative of despair.

Soon he heard and answered a triple rap on the barred door, and though it seemed a designated signal he maintained the caution of a hand on his revolver until a figure entered and he recognized the features of young Peter Doane.

“Come in, Pete,” he accosted. “I reckon ther other feller’ll git hyar d’reck’ly.”

The two sat smoking and talking in low tones, yet pausing constantly to listen until again they heard the triple rap and admitted a third member to their caucus.

Here any one not an initiate to the mysteries of this inner shrine would have wondered to the degree of amazement, for this newcomer was an ostensible enemy of Bas Rowlett’s whom in other company he refused to recognize.

But Sim Squires entered unhesitatingly and now between himself and the man with whom he did not speak in public passed a nod and glance of complete harmony and understanding.

When certain subsidiary affairs had been adjusted all matters of upbuilding for Rowlett’s influence and repute Bas turned to Sim Squires.

“Sim,” he said, genially, “I reckon we’re ready ter heer what ye’ve got on yore mind now,” and the other grinned.

“Ther Thorntons an’ Harpers them thet dwells furthest back in ther sticks air a doin’ a heap of buzzin’ an’ talkin’. They’re right sim’lar ter bees gittin’ ready ter swarm. I’ve done seed ter that. I reckon when this hyar stranger starts in ter rob ther honey outen thet hive he’s goin’ ter find a tol’able nasty lot of stingers on his hands.”

“Ye’ve done cautioned ’em not ter make no move afore they gits ther word, hain’t ye an’ ye’ve done persuaded ’em ye plum hates me, hain’t ye?”

Again Sim grinned.

“Satan hisself would git rightfully insulted ef anybody cussed an’ damned him like I’ve done you, Bas.”

“All right then. I reckon when ther time comes both ther Doanes and Harpers’ll be right sick of Mr. Cal Maggard or Mr. Parish Thornton or Mr. Who-ever-he-is.”

They talked well into the night, and Peter Doane was the first to leave, but after his departure Sim Squires permitted a glint of deep anxiety to show in his narrow and shifty eyes.

“Hit’s yore own business ef ye confidences Pete Doane in yore own behalf, Bas,” he suggested, “but ye hain’t told him nuthin’ erbout me, hes ye?”

Bas Rowlett smiled.

“I hain’t no damn fool, Sim,” he reassured. “Thar don’t nobody but jest me an’ you know thet ye shot Cal Maggard but ye war sich a damn disable feller on ther job thet rightly I ought ter tell yore name ter ther circuit-rider.”

“What fer?” growled the hireling, sulkily, and the master laughed.

“So’s he could put hit in his give-out at meetin’ an shame ye afore all mankind,” he made urbane explanation.

July, which began fresh and cool, burned, that year, into a scorching heat, until the torrid skies bent in a blue arch of arid cruelty and the ridges stood starkly stripped of their moisture.

Forests were rusted and freckled and roads gave off a choke of dust to catch the breath of travellers as the heat waves trembled feverishly across the clear, hot distances.

Like a barometer of that scorched torpor, before the eyes of the slowly convalescing Thornton stood the walnut tree in the dooryard. A little while ago it had spread its fresh and youthful canopy of green overhead in unstinted abundance of vigour.

Now it stood desolate, with its leaves drooping in fever-hot inertia. The squirrel sat gloomily silent on the branches, panting under its fur, and the oriole’s splendour of orange and jet had turned dusty and bedraggled.

When a dispirited wisp of breeze stirred in its head-growth its branches gave out only the flat hoarseness of rattling leaves.

One morning before full daylight old Caleb left the house to cross the low creek bed valley and join a working party in a new field which was being cleared of timber. He had been away two hours when without warning the hot air became insufferably close and the light ghost of breeze died to a breathless stillness. The drought had lasted almost four weeks, and now at last, though the skies were still clear, that heat-vacuum seemed to augur its breaking.

An hour later over the ridge came a black and lowering pall of cloud moving slowly and bellying out from its inky centre with huge masses of dirty fleece at its margin and in the little time that Dorothy stood in the door watching, it spread until the high sun was obscured.

The distant but incessant rumbling of thunder was a chorussed growling of storm voices against a background of muffled drum-beat, and the girl said, a shade anxiously, “Gran’pap’s goin’ ter git drenched ter ther skin.”

While the inky pall spread and lowered until it held the visible world in a gray-green corrosion of gloom the stillness became more pulseless. Then with a crashing salvo of suddenness the tempest broke and it was as though all the belated storms of the summer had merged into one armageddon of the elements.

A rending and splintering of timber sounded with the shriek of the tornado that whipped its lash of destruction through the woods. The girl, buffeted and almost swept from her feet, struggled with her weight thrown against the door that she could scarcely close. Then the darkness blotted midday into night, and through the unnatural thickness clashed a frenzy of détonations.

Out of the window she and her husband seemed looking through dark and confused waters which leaped constantly into the brief and blinding glare of such blue-white instants of lightning as hurt the eyes. The walnut tree appeared and disappeared waving arms like a high-priest in transports of frenzy, and adding its wind-song to the mighty chorus.

The sturdily built old house trembled under that assaulting, and when the first cyclonic sweep of wind had rushed by the pelting of hail and rain was a roar as of small-arms after artillery.

“Gran’pap,” gasped Dorothy. “I don’t see how a livin’ soul kin endure out thar!”

Then came a concussion as though the earth had broken like a bursted emery wheel, and a hall of white fire seemed to pass through the walls of the place. Dorothy pitched forward, stunned, to the floor and at the pit of his stomach Cal Maggard felt a sudden sickness of shock that passed as instantly as it had come. He found himself electrically tingling through every nerve as the woman rose slowly and dazedly, staring about her.

“Did hit strike ... ther house?” she asked, faintly, and then with the same abruptness as that with which darkness had come, the sky began to turn yellowish again and they could see off across the road through the amber thickness of returning daylight.

“No,” her husband said, hesitantly, “hit warn’t ther house but hit was right nigh!”

The girl followed his startled gaze, and there about the base of the walnut tree lay shaggy strips of rent bark.

Running down the trunk in the glaring spiral of a fresh scar two hand-breadths wide went the swath along which the bolt had plunged groundward.

For a few moments, though with a single thought between them, neither spoke. In the mind of Dorothy words from a faded page seemed to rewrite themselves: “Whilst that tree stands ... and weathers the thunder and wind ... our family also will wax strong and robust ... but when it falls !”

Cal rose slowly to his feet, and the girl asked dully, “Where be ye goin’?”

“I’m goin’,” he said as their eyes met in a flash of understanding, “ter seek fer yore gran’pap.”

“I fears me hit’s too late....” Her gaze went outward and as she looked the man needed no explanation.

“Ef he’s still alive,” she added, resolutely, with a return of self-control, “ther danger’s done passed now. Hit would kill ye ter go out in this storm, weak as ye be. Let’s strive ter be patient.”

Ten minutes later they heard a knock on the door and opened it to find a man drenched with rain standing there, whose face anticipated their questions.

“Me and old Caleb,” he began, “was comin’ home tergither ... we’d got es fur as ther aidge of ther woods ...” he paused, then forced out the words, “a limb blew down on him.”

“Is he ... is he...?” The girl’s question got no further, and the messenger shook his head. “He’s dead,” came the simple reply. “The other boys air fotchin’ him in now.”