IIHardcastle rode slowly home to Logie, after his encounter in the wayside ditch. For a week he had been restless, wondering what Garsykes meant to do with him. Now they had shot their bolt, and he survived. Never in his life had he known this keen, hard joy that was growing with the feud. Once they had tried to take him at the pinfold—and once a man had come to fire his house and been over-blown by snow. Now they had stretched a rope across the road to hinder him, and he was up in saddle again. Whatever the future had in store, he had given no tribute to Garsykes, and would give none.
At a bend of the road he met Shepherd Brant, who greeted him with taciturn relief.
“It’s better to be quick than dead, Master.”
“It is, Stephen,” said Hardcastle, answering dryness with dryness.
“Rebecca
