"I'm comfortable 'nough here," replied Thompson. "If I get up ye might keep your word an' lay me out again."
Jack Wade was not fully acquainted with the mountain laws, the laws as regarded between man and man, or man and his sworn enemy. No other law counted for anything with the mountaineers. If any one of those fellows had got him in the same position, under similar circumstances, they would not have left enough of him to rise from the earth, in fact, there would not have been enough of him for his friends to gather up with a shovel, so utterly thorough would have been the destruction of his tenement of clay.
Thompson, seeing that he was safe from further attack, contented himself by saying, "I'll git ye yet."
"Come," said Wade, taking Nora by the arm, "let us now be going. Forgive me for such unseemly conduct in your presence."
The girl did not seem to understand. Such as she had just seen she had been accustomed to always, ever since she first remembered anything that was going on about her. Never before had she heard an apology when one man knocked another down.
"Ye couldn't help it," she said. After a few moments silence she continued, "He'll kill ye shore, ef ye don't keep away from him."
"No, he won't, Nora. He won't attempt it again. If he does, well—that's something else. I presume he is a Rider, is he not?" She did not reply. "Come, Nora," said Wade pleadingly; "don't be reticent. Tell me all you can, being consistent, just as I have told you everything—all the contents of my heart to-day."
She could not resist the appeal. Tears were gathering in her eyes; they were the first Wade had seen in any eyes for a long time, and his own heart was touched. She opened her innocent life before him and told him all she knew. The women folks, however, did not know nearly so much as they often prided themselves as knowing. She believed he ought to know, more especially since the incident with Al Thompson, because it would be a sort of protection to him. He would know what to look for and how to bear himself.
"They aint a-goin' ter hurt ye, ef I can help ye," she said, sobbingly.
He understood her feelings perfectly well, and determined there on the wild mountainside, in the presence of the rugged hills and within sound of the running waters, to protect and aid this unopened wild flower of the mountain so long as he had power to do so, so long as this power lasted—so long as he had breath in his lungs.