On his way to the livery stable he met Kinnard Towers on foot but, as always, under escort. Still stinging under the chagrin of an hereditary enemy's gratuitous intervention in his behalf and a deep-seated suspicion of the man, he halted stiffly and his brow was lowering.
"Air these hyar tidin's true, Bear Cat? I've heerd thet yore paw's done been jailed," demanded Kinnard solicitously, ignoring the coldness of his greeting. "Kin I holp ye in any fashion?"
"No, we don't need no aid," was the curt response. "Ef we did we'd call on ther Stacys fer hit."
Towers smiled. "I aimed ter show ye this a'tternoon thet I felt friendly, Turner."
The manner was seemingly so sincere that the young man felt ashamed of his contrasting churlishness and hastened to amend it.
"I reckon I hev need ter ask yore pardon, Kinnard. I'm sore fretted about this matter."
"An' I don't blame ye neither, son. I jest stopped ter acquaint ye with what folks says. This hyar whole matter looks like a sort of bluff on Mark Tapper's part ter make a good showin' with ther government. He hain't hardly got nothin' but hearsay ter go on—unless he kin make you testify. Ef ye was ter kinderly disappear now fer a space of time, I reckon nothin' much wouldn't come of hit."
"I'm obleeged ter ye Kinnard. Paw hes don' give me ther same counsel," said Bear Cat, as he hurried to the stable where he parted with Jerry Henderson after a brief and earnest interview.
It was with a very set face and with very deep thoughts that Bear Cat Stacy set out for his home on Little Slippery. He rode all night with the starlight and the clean sweep of mountain wind in his face, and at sunrise stabled his mount at the cabin of a kinsman and started on again by a short cut "over the roughs" where a man can travel faster on foot.
When eventually he entered the door of his house his mother looked across the dish she was drying to inquire, "Where's yore paw at?"