Part 3

“Y'u know whut my price al'ays is,” he said.

“I'm obleeged,” answered the girl, flushing.

“Co'n hev riz on our side. I thought mebbe you charged folks over thar more, anyways.”

“I sells fer the same, ef co'n is high ur low,” was the answer. “This side or t'other makes no diff'unce to me. I hev frien's on both sides, 'n' I take no part in sech doin's as air a shame to the mountains.”

There was a quick light of protest in the girl's dark eyes; but the old miller was honored by both factions, and without a word she turned to the boy, who was tying the sack.

“The boat's loose!” he called out, with the string between his teeth; and she turned again and ran out. Rome stood still.

“Kerry the sack out, boy, 'n' holp the gal.” Old Gabe's voice was stern, and the young mountaineer doggedly swung the bag to his shoulders. The girl had caught the rope, and drawn the rude dugout along the shore.

“Who axed ye to do that?” she asked, angrily.

Rome dropped the bag into the boat, and merely looked her in the face.

“Look hyeh, Rome Stetson”--the sound of his name from her lips almost startled him--“I'll hev ye understan' that I don't want to be bounden to you, nor none o' yer kin.”

Turning, she gave an impatient sweep with her paddle. The prow of the canoe dipped and was motionless. Rome had caught the stern, and the girl wheeled in hot anger. Her impulse to strike may have been for the moment and no longer, or she may have read swiftly no unkindness in the mountaineer's steady look; for the uplifted oar was stayed in the air, as though at least she would hear him.

“I've got nothin' ag'in' you,” he said, slowly, “Jas Lewallen hev been threatenin' me, 'n' I thought it was him, 'n' I was ready fer him, when you come into the mill. I wouldn't hurt you nur no other woman. Y'u ought to know it, 'n' ye do know it.”

The words were masterful, but said in a way that vaguely soothed the girl's pride, and the oar was let slowly into the water.

“I reckon y'u air a friend o' his,” he added, still quietly. “I've seed ye goin' up thar, but I've got nothin' ag'in' ye, whoever ye be.”

She turned on him a sharp look of suspicion. “I reckon I do be a friend o' hisn,” she said, deliberately; and then she saw that he was in earnest. A queer little smile went like a ray of light from her eyes to her lips, and she gave a quick stroke with her paddle. The boat shot into the current, and was carried swiftly toward the Cumberland. The girl stood erect, swaying through light and shadow like a great scarlet flower blowing in the wind; and Rome watched her till she touched the other bank. Swinging the sack out, she stepped lightly after it, and, without looking behind her, disappeared in the bushes.

The boy Isom was riding away when Rome, turned, and old Gabe was watching from the door of the mill.

“Who is that gal?” he asked, slowly. It seemed somehow that he had known her a long while ago. A puzzled frown overlay his face, and the old miller laughed.

“You a-axin' who she be, 'n' she a-axin who you be, 'n' both o' ye a-knowin' one 'nother sence ye was knee-high. Why, boy, hit's old Jasper's gal--Marthy!”

IN a flash of memory Rome saw the girl as vividly as when he last saw her years ago. They had met at the mill, he with his father, she with hers. There was a quarrel, and the two men were held apart. But the old sore as usual was opened, and a week later Rome's father was killed from the brush. He remembered his mother's rage and grief, her calls for vengeance, the uprising, the fights, plots, and ambushes. He remembered the look the girl had given him that long ago, and her look that day was little changed.

When fighting began, she had been sent for safety to the sister of her dead mother in another county. When peace came, old Jasper married again and the girl refused to come home. Lately the step-mother, too, had passed away, and then she came back to live. All this the old miller told in answer to Rome's questions as the two walked away in the twilight. This was why he had not recognized her, and why her face yet seemed familiar even when he crossed the river that morning.

“Uncle Gabe, how do you reckon the gal knowed who I was?”

“She axed me.”

“She axed you! Whar?”

“Over thar in the mill.” The miller was watching the young mountaineer closely. The manner of the girl was significant when she asked who Rome was, and the miller knew but one reason possible for his foolhardiness that morning.

“Do you mean to say she have been over hyeh afore?”

“Why, yes, come to think about it, three or four times while Isom was sick, and whut she come fer I can't make out. The mill over thar wasn't broke long, 'n' why she didn't go thar or bring more co'n at a time, to save her the trouble o' so many trips, I can't see to save me.”

Young Stetson was listening eagerly. Again the miller cast his bait.

“Mebbe she's spyin'.”