Bear Cat's eyes brightened at this prospect of immediate action. "Little" Jake, so dubbed after mountain custom because his father still lived and bore the same given name, was a nephew of Kinnard Towers, and despite his diminutive title prided himself on his evil and murderous repute. He was a "notched-gun" man and high in his uncle's favor.
"Air they runnin' thet kittle in ther same place es they used to a year back?" demanded Turner, and Joe nodded as he replied. "Ther same identical spot. Hit's, as a man mout say, right in ther shadder of ther Quarterhouse hitself."
Bear Cat Stacy was on his feet and his words came with the animation of a daring plan already formulated.
"Now hearken.... You two boys look atter them idle stills.... I aims ter manage this t'other one—by myself."
Dog Tate raised a hand in remonstrance, but Turner beat down argument with a contemptuous laugh. "I'm in haste because I'm a-wearied," he explained, "an' thet's ther speediest way ter git through an' lay down. I'll be at yore house afore sun-up, an' I reckon ye kin hide me out thar fer a few hours while I sleeps, kain't ye?"
"I kin take keer of ye—ef ye gits thar alive," affirmed the first recruit. "But hit looks severely dubious ter me."
Turner tightened his belt, but as he was leaving he wheeled to direct: "This worm of your'n an' ther t'other two hes got ter be hangin' in ther highway by daylight. I aims ter hang Jake Kinnard's right up erginst ther stockade of ther Quarterhouse."
As he scuttled through the dark timber the moon broke out at intervals, making of the road a patch-work of shadow and light. Last night he was hiding out only from the revenue agent and his informers. To-night he had flung his challenge to the vested rights of tradition and forfeited clan sponsorship. Every hand was against him.
His way carried him past the Quarterhouse itself and near the hitching-rack he halted, crouched low against the naked briars and dead brush-wood. Among the several beasts fastened there was a gray horse more visible than its darker companions, which he recognized as belonging to Black Tom Carmichael. Yet Black Tom had been otherwise mounted to-day when he had ridden away from Little Slippery with Kinnard Towers.
Obviously the fresh animal stood saddled for a new journey—probably a mission of general warning. Bear Cat drew back into the invisibility of the steep hillside to watch, and it was only a short time before the door of Kinnard's own house, on the opposite slope, opened. Towers himself he only glimpsed, for the chieftain did not make a practice of offering himself as a target by night, framed in lighted doorways.