On the steps sat a woman with her head bare and her hands under her apronwidow of the Marcum whose death from a bullet one month before had broken the long truce of the feud.

A groaning curse was growled from the window as the girl drew near, and she knew it came from a wounded Marcum who had lately come back from the West to avenge his brother's death.

Inside, behind her, the wounded Marcum, who had been listening, raised himself on one elbow and looked after her through the window.

Across the way, the wounded Marcum, with a scowl of wonder, crawled out of his bed and started painfully to the door.

The girl moved swiftly to the windowshe could see the wounded Marcum slowly crossing the street, pistol in hand.

The widow covered her face with her hands, and the Marcum at the windowbrother to Jim, who was deadlowered at her, listening keenly.

My brother wouldn't 'a' shot Jim Marcum if it hadn't been fer you.