land that her ancestors had missed; in the rich culture

of the Bluegrass.

About her were the marvels of mansions and metaled roads; white instead of clay-red. But while her heart thumped with the wonder of it all she bore herself, because of her mountain blood, with no outward show of surprise and looked at each new thing as though she had known it from her birth.

As they entered the lobby of the Phoenix Hotel in Lexington a tall youth rose from a chair and came forward. If the boy was cruder and darker and less trim in appearance than his Bluegrass brethren, at least he bore his head as high and walked as independently. He came forward with his hat in his hand and his voice was enthusiastic, "I'm mighty glad ter see ye, Dawn."

The girl looked about the place and breathed rather than said, "Isn't the world wonderful, Milt? "

Two days followed through which Dawn passed in transports of delight. There were the undreamed sights of shop windows decked for the holiday season and the crowds on the streets, and the gayety and merriment of Christmas everywhere. She had never heard so much laughter before and she found it infectious and laughed, too.

Young Milt way-laid her in a dozen shops and the sight of him coaxed a brighter color into her cheeks despite her gay dismissals. "Go on away, boy," she would tell him. "Don't you see I'm too busy to be bothered with you?"

Once he whispered, as he stood at her elbow in the crush of a toy store, "I hain't a-goin' ter be much as

tonished ef old Santa Claus puts somethin' on thet tree fer you, Dawn. I met up with him just now an' he named hit ter me."

At last she found herself again in a faded plush car beside Juanita with young Milt sitting opposite. In the racks overhead and piled about them was a mysterious litter of gayly tied packages.

Of course they had much more than their two pairs of saddle-bags could carry, but young Milt would help them and Anse Havey would be at the train to meet them. Old Milt, too, was on that train, but he paused only to nod before disappearing into the shabbier smoking compartment where he had business to discuss. A man was waiting for him in there whom old acquaintances might have passed by without recognition. It was the devout hope of Milt McBriar that when they left the train at Peril, any acquaintances who might be lounging about would so fail to recognize him.

Luke Thixton bore an altered appearance. Always he had been ragged and unkempt of person. His black beard had ambushed his features until save for cheekbones and nose and eyes, men had forgotten what the face itself was like. His hair had always fallen long and straggly under the brim of his hat.

But now he had been shaved and his hair was closely cropped. He wore a suit of new clothes that came near to fitting him. A disguise of cleanliness enveloped him.

While the Christmas shoppers laughed in the day coach, Luke received final instructions in the empty smoker.

He was to pass as swiftly and unobtrusively as possible through Peril and go direct across the ridge.

He and Milt would leave the train without conversation or anything to mark them as companions. After that Luke knew what he was to do, and no further conference would be necessary until he came to report success and collect his wage.

CHAPTER XXVIII

T was noon when the train rumbled again over the trestle near the town and all morning a steady,

IT

feathery snow had been falling, veiling the sights from the car windows and wrapping the mountains in a cloak of swan's-down.

At last the trucks screamed, the old engine came puffing and wheezing to a tired halt and the two girls with young Milt at their heels made their way out, burdened with parcels.

On the cinder platform Juanita looked about for Anse Havey and she saw him standing in a group with Jeb and several other men whom she did not know but Anse's face was not turned toward her, and it did not wear the look of expectancy that the thought of her usually brought there. Jeb's countenance, too, was white and very set, and a breathless tensity seemed to hold the whole picture in fixed tautness.

There were several clumps of men standing about, all armed, and every face wore the same expression of waiting sternness.

A gasp of premonition rose to Juanita's lips as she caught the sinister note of suspense with which the atmosphere was freighted. Then Milt McBriar stepped down from the smoker vestibule, followed by another

man.

As the two of them turned in opposite directions on

the trampled snow of the platform, a man who had been standing with Bad Anse Havey laid his hand heavily on the shoulder of the clean-shaven arrival, and said in a clear voice, "Luke Thixton, I want ye fer ther murder of Fletch McNash." So that was what it all meant!

Old Milt McBriar, for once startled out of his casehardened self-control, wheeled to demand angrily, "What hell's trick is this?" His eyes were blazing and his face worked with passionate fury.

A second Deputy answered him. "An' Milt McBriar I wants you, too, on an indictment for accessory ter murder."

Juanita felt Dawn's spasmodic fingers clutching her arm and felt her own knees grow suddenly weak. She heard a soft clatter of parcels on the snow-wrapped cinders as young Milt dropped them and leaped forward, his own eyes kindling, and his right hand frantically clawing at the buttons of his coat. But before young Milt could draw his weapon from its arm-pit holster, Jeb McNash had wheeled to face him, bending forward to a half crouch. The younger McBriar halted and bent back under the glint of the revolver which Jeb was thrusting into his face.

Haveys, armed and grim of visage, began drawing close about the captives in a menacing cordon.

Dawn clung with bloodless lips and white cheeks to the elder girl as she watched her brother holding his weapon in the face of the boy whom she suddenly realized she loved more than her brother.

Then the Sheriff spoke again. "Thar hain't no use in makin' no trouble, Milt. Ther Grand Jury hes done