When Bear Cat was joined by Joe Sanders a few minutes later, the ridges were still grim and unrelieved heaps of ragged gray. The sky was lowering and vague, and the face of the sun pale and sullen.
Joe, too, in that depressing dimness looked like a churlish ghost, and as the pair stood silently in the road they saw a trio of horsemen approaching and recognized at their head Dog Tate, mud-splashed and astride a horse that limped stiffly with weariness.
Dog slid from his saddle, and reported briefly.
"Ther boys air a-comin' in from ther branch waters an' ther furthermost coves. I've done started a tide of men flowin' ter-night."
"I'm beholden ter ye. I reckon we'd all better fare over ter my house and make ready ter meet 'em thar."
Tate leaned forward and gripped Bear Cat's arm.
"I've done warned everybody thet our folks must come in quiet. I 'lowed ye'd want ter hold counsel afore any man fired a shot—but—" He paused and looked furtively about him, then lowered his voice. "But thar's a thing comin' ter pass thet don't pleasure me none. Kinnard Towers air a-ridin' over hyar ter hev speech with ye—an' ef ye jest says ther word—thar hain't no need of his ever gittin' hyar."
"Kinnard Towers!" For an instant an astonished and renewed anger flared in Bear Cat's pupils, and the face of the other man blackened with the malevolence of a grudge long nursed and long festering in repression.
"Kinnard Towers," repeated Dog Tate, vindictively mouthing the name. "He's hired more men killed then he's got teeth in his jaws. He's raked hell itself, stirrin' tribulation fer yore people an' mine—an' I've done took my oath. Jest es soon es things start poppin' he's my man ter kill!"
Abruptly Tate fell to trembling. His face became a thing of ash and flint. From his pocket he drew a small package folded in newspaper, which he unwrapped and held out, displaying an old and very soiled handkerchief, spotted with dark discolorations. A shrill note sharpened his voice as he spoke in vehement haste.