Wolfs Head | Page 5

repellent
impulse; then she would have given much to recall the reproach. The
man was desperate; his safety lay in her silence. A pistol-shot would
secure it, and anger would limber the trigger.
But he did not seem indignant. His eyes, intelligent and feverishly
bright, gazed down at her only in obvious dismay and surprise. "Done
what?" he asked, and as, prudence prevailing for once, she did not reply,
he spoke for her. "The murder, ye mean? Why, gal, I warn't even thar. I
knowed nuthin' 'bout it till later. Ez God is my helper and my hope, I
warn't even thar."
She stood astounded. "Then why n't ye leave it ter men?"
"I can't prove it ag'in' the murderers' oaths. I had been consarned in the
moonshinin' that ended in murder, but I hed not been nigh the still fer a
month,--I war out a-huntin'--when the revenuers made the raid. There
war a scrimmage 'twixt the raiders an' the distillers, an' an outsider that
hed nuthin' ter do with the Federal law--he war the constable o' the
deestrick, an' jes rid with the gang ter see the fun or ter show them the
way--he war killed. An' account o' him, the State law kem into the
game. Them other moonshiners war captured, an' they swore ag'in' me
'bout the shootin' ter save tharselves, but I hearn thar false oaths hev
done them no good, they being held as accessory. An' I be so ez I can't
prove an alibi--I can't prove it, though it's God's truth. But before high
heaven"--he lifted his gaunt right hand--"I am innercent, I am

inner-cent."
She could not have said why,--perhaps she realized afterward,--but she
believed him absolutely, implicitly. A fervor of sympathy for his plight,
of commiseration, surged up in her heart. "I wisht it war so I could gin
ye some pervisions," she sighed, "though ye do 'pear toler'ble triflin' ter
lack game."
Then the dread secret was told. "Gal,"--he used the word as a polite
form of address, the equivalent of the more sophisticated "lady,"--"ef
ye will believe me, all my ammunition is spent. Not a ca'tridge lef', not
a dust of powder."
Meddy caught both her hands to her lips to intercept and smother a cry
of dismay.
"I snared a rabbit two days ago in a dead-fall. My knife-blade is bruk,
but I reckon thar is enough lef' ter split my jugular whenst the eend is
kem at last."
The girl suddenly caught her faculties together. "What sorter fool talk is
that!" she demanded sternly.' "Ye do my bid, ef ye knows what's good
fer ye. Git out'n this trap of a tree an' hide 'mongst the crevices of the
rocks till seben o 'clock ternight. Then kem up ter Gran'dad Kettison's
whenst it is cleverly dark an' tap on the glass winder--not on the batten
shutter. An' I'll hev cartridges an' powder an' ball for ye' an' some
victuals ready, too."
But the fugitive, despite his straits, demurred. "I don't want ter git old
man Kettison into trouble for lendin' ter me."
"'T ain't his'n. 'T is my dad's old buckshot ca'tridges an' powder an' ball.
They belong ter me. The other childern is my half-brothers, bein' my
mother war married twice. Ye kin steal this gear from me, ef that will
make ye feel easier."
"But what will yer gran'dad say ter me?" "He won't know who ye be;
he will jes 'low ye air one o' the boys who air always foolin' away thar

time visitin' me an' makin' tallow-dips skeerce." The sudden gleam of
mirth on her face was like an illuminating burst of sunshine, and
somehow it cast an irradiation into the heart of the fugitive, for, after
she was gone out of sight, he pondered upon it.
But the early dusk fell from a lowering sky, and the night came on
beclouded and dark. Some turbulent spirit was loosed in the air, and the
wind was wild. Great, surging masses of purple vapor came in a mad
rout from the dank west and gathered above the massive and looming
mountains. The woods bent and tossed and clashed their boughs in the
riot, of gusts, the sere leaves were flying in clouds, and presently rain
began to fall. The steady downpour increased in volume to torrents;
then the broad, pervasive flashes of lightning showed, in lieu of myriad
lines, an unbroken veil of steely gray swinging from the zenith, the
white foam rebounding as the masses of water struck the earth. The
camp equipage, tents and wagons succumbed beneath the fury of the
tempest, and, indeed, the hunters had much ado to saddle their horses
and grope their way along the bridle-path that led to old Kettison's
house.
The rude comfort of the interior had a