horns. You've got to hide him sure, whoever he is, for I wouldn't hand
an Eskimo over, if I'd taken him in my home once; we're mountain people.
A man ought to be hung for horse-stealin', but this was different. He
was doing it to save a man's life, an' that man at Bindon was good to his
little gal, an' she's dead."

He moved his head from side to side with the air of a sentimental
philosopher. He had all the vanity of a man who had been a success in a
small, shrewd, culpable way--had he not evaded the law for thirty years
with his whiskey-still?

"I know how he felt," he continued. "When Betsy died--we was only four
years married--I could have crawled into a knot-hole an' died there. You
got to save him, Jinny, but"--he came suddenly to his feet--"he ain't
safe here. They might come any minute, if they've got back on his trail.
I'll take him up the gorge. You know where."

"You sit still, Uncle Tom," she rejoined. "Leave him where he is a
minute. There's things must be settled first. They ain't going to look
for him in my bedroom, be they?"

The old man chuckled. "I'd like to see 'em at it. You got a temper,
Jinny; and you got a pistol too, eh?" He chuckled again. "As good a
shot as any in the mountains. I can see you darin' 'em to come on. But
what if Jake come, and he found a man in your bedroom"--he wiped the
tears of laughter from his eyes--"why, Jinny--!"

He stopped short, for there was anger in her face. "I don't want to hear
any more of that. I do what I want to do," she snapped out.