"I'll tell you why."
He patted the gun, now lying across his knees.
"This here was your father's gun. He carried it for many years. I had
it when the feud betwixt the Grangers and the Vaughns first began. He
had it with him when he was shot down at the Laurel Branch by John
Vaughn, just six years ago today."
"Today is my birthday," commented Ralph, a sturdy-limbed, ruddy-faced
lad.
"And you are fifteen. Think of that; 'most a man. I said I'd wait
till you was fifteen, and as it happens, his son's a goin' to mill
today."
"What of that?"
"You just wait and you'll see. All you've got to do is to obey orders."
The old man got up, took down a leather shot pouch, and proceeded to
load the rifle carefully. After which he slung the pouch and a powder
horn round Ralph's neck, then went out and looked at the sun.
He returned, placed the rifle in the lad's hands, and bade him follow.
Taking their hats they went out of the house.
Steep mountain ridges cut off any extended view. An old field or two
lay about them, partially in the narrow creek bottom and partially
climbing the last rugged slopes.
There was a foot log across the little brawling brook, beyond which the
public road wound deviously down the glen towards the far distant
lowlands.
Ralph eyed the unusually stern expression of his grandfather's face
dubiously as they trudged along the road.
Bras Granger was all of sixty-five years old, dried and toughened by
toil, exposure, and vindictive broodings, until he resembled a
cross-grained bit of time-hardened oak.
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