Joe Lorey paused grimly in his progress to stare at the rough shack
which housed the man he hated. He was no coward, and he would not take
advantage of the loneliness and isolation of the spot to do him harm
surreptitiously, but vividly the thought thrilled through him that
someday he would assail him. Smoke was curling from the mud-and-stick
chimney of the little structure, and he smiled contemptuously as he
thought of how the bluegrass youth was doubtless pottering, within,
getting ready to go down into the valley to greet his fine friends and
be greeted. He had no doubt that long ere this the aged negro had
reached him with the news of their arrival. He wondered, with a fierce
leap of hope, if, possibly, their coming might not be the signal for the
man's departure from the country where he was not wanted.

This hope keenly thrilled him, for a moment, but, an instant later,
when, through the small window, he saw the youth seat himself, alone,
before a blazing fire of logs, stretch out his legs and lounge in the
comfort of the blaze, it left him. He wondered if Layson did not intend
to go down at all to meet his friends.

Just then his quick ear caught the sound of stumbling, hurried
footsteps, plainly not a mountaineer's, down in the rough woodland,
below. Instantly his muscles tautened, instantly he brought his rifle to
position; but he soon let it fall again and smiled, perhaps, for the
first time that day.

"Lawsy! Lawsy!" he could hear a scared voice muttering. "Lawsy, I is
los', fo' suah!"

His smile broadened to a wide, malicious grin of satisfaction. The black