The lad—everywhere a favorite—had never absented himself from home before; and when Wednesday, Thursday, Friday came and went without tidings of him, the neighbors from up and down the creek began to gather at the store.
They looked at the heavy sky, sunless and misty these four days past, and shook their heads ominously, whispering among themselves. The poor mother was wellnigh frantic with alarm. Uncle Gid alone maintained an air of obstinate confidence, in the face of which no one dared venture a move.
"Jack Bishop is full able to take keer of hisse'f," he repeated, proudly, in answer to Mr. Pinson's timid suggestions. "Jack Bishop knows every inch of ground betwixt Jim-Ned and Rattlesnake Gap."
"All the same, notwithstandin'," whispered Granny Carnes in Mrs. Bishop's ear, "I've give my orders for candle-lightin', honey."
But before candle-lighting Mr. Bishop's assumed stoicism gave way. About sunset he arose and took his rifle from the rack above the door. "Come on, boys," he said, with a catch in his throat. And a moment later they were hurrying down the rutty road.
At the Jim-Ned crossing the old man paused. "You go back, Susy," he said, with rough kindness, to the frail little woman following a pace or two behind him. "Go back, and stay with the women folks. You ain't nowise fitten for this sort o' thing."
Jack's mother pulled the red knitted shawl closer about her head, and moved steadily forward. "No, Gid," she said, quietly; "I'm not going back—not without my boy."
He put an arm about her without another word, and husband and wife presently entered together the mysterious gloom of The Rough.
II.
An hour or two later Jack Bishop was lying on the open prairie, where he had thrown himself in a sort of dull despair. His loaded gun lay beside him; his empty wallet hung from his shoulder; his face looked pinched and wan in the vapory moonlight.