Silence for a long time held the group. It behooved all to be cautious.
“He’s been in here somewhar,” went on Joslin, “an’ he hain’t fur now. Tell me, is he down at the dance house?”
“Well, ye mought go an’ see,” rejoined the first speaker, grinning. “Ye know, Dave Joslin, I hain’t got no quarl with ye, nor has ary o’ my people. Ye set right here now, boys,” he continued, sweeping out a long arm toward the merrymakers, who still lingered about the liquor barrel.
“Thar’s more of them than thar is of ye,” he whispered hurriedly to Joslin as he stepped up. “The house is full, an’ they’re dancin’. Three or four gals from down on the Buffalo is in thar now. They’re havin’ a right big frolic.”
Without a word Joslin turned and hurried down the path. He knew the location of the building to which reference had been made—a long log structure rudely floored with puncheons, sometimes employed locally as a sort of adjunct of the still. The sounds of dancing, the music of one or two reedy violins, the voice of a caller now and then, greeted the party of avengers who now approached this curious building hidden in the heart of the mountain wilderness. Whether or not all of the occupants of the dance house were of Absalom Gannt’s party, neither David Joslin nor any one else might tell. There might be a general mingling here of friend and foe until some overt act should light again the ancient fire, forever smouldering.
Joslin beckoned to his companions. “Git behind them rocks right over thar, boys,” he whispered. “I’m a-goin’ up to the door.”
The young men with him went about their business with perfect calmness, although the eye of each was alert and glittering. They took their stations under the leadership of the man who they now regarded as the chieftain of their clan, and watched him go to what seemed certain death.
Joslin advanced steadily to the door, his thumbs in the waist band of his trousers. With his left hand he knocked loudly on the jamb of the door. He spoke to some one, apparently an acquaintance, who noticed him.
“Is Absalom Gannt here?” he demanded. “If he is, tell him to come out. I’ll wait till he comes out fair.”
“Good God A’mighty, Davy,” said the other who stood within. “Air ye atter trouble? This is jest a little frolic.”