were cast as they stood before the counter. This figure was unlike the others whom they had been able to recognize.

Figuring from the shadow cast the position of the person who originated it became the problem. All three of the men on the hilltop were excellent marksmen-they could calculate to the thickness of a feather the mark at which they aimed.

If this be the shadow cast by Ed Callahan-the mark of fatality was upon him. Whispers buzzed back and forth. The assassins were consulting one another as to the exact distance of fire that would reach a vital spot when the marked man stepped in the proper spot that they had chosen for their bombardment.
Wilson Callahan left the store. The early customers had been counted and all seemed to have departed. The next time the "Sheriff" came to the spot and stood in the position that they agreed upon would be his last.

Now the shadow bobbed. Its creator was still out of range, not a rifle spoke. Their prey turned and it was minutes before the shadow appeared again.

Now he ventured a little farther over. The hand of one of the three pressed upon the trigger guard. Would the victim move the required inches which would sound his death knell. The shadow wavered-he did.

Slowly the hand of the ringleader rose. Two of his fingers moved. Then the deadly hail of lead spoke.
The glass in the store window splintered and crashed with the first volley. Ten shots in all were fired-six of them found lodgement in the body of the former sheriff of Breathitt County. One low moan rose to his lips.
"They've got me," was all that he said.

The barking guns on the hillside carried their own message to the folk of Crocketsville. They knew instinctively that another attack had been made upon Callahan-they bided their time before they ventured out of doors. One or two threw fleeting glances in the direction from whence the firing came-they were to play an important part later along.

Not a henchman, not a relative, none of kin were about to give battle or join in pursuit. The feudists had chosen their time well and the best hour for their assault.
There was one, however, who was willing to do battle for the old chieftain of the Callahans. The wife of his son, Wilson, when
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their nether garments and their boots were soaking wet, but Dock Smith and Abe Johnson insisted that they knew of another craft that could be obtained without much bother and no trouble.

When the place was reached they exchanged boats and in this second bark they made their way up stream to Long's Creek where they were forced to put ashore.

Up to this time they had no assurance that their plans would carry for they were merely going on the assumption that Callahan would follow his usual routine, Willie Deaton, a son of Jim, lived near the headwaters of the creek and would know for certain if the Callahan boats had come in.
This member of the clan was awakened by his father who asked: "Hez the ol' cuss come in yet?"

"He landed soon after sundown, en fo'ced on straight fer home,"
was the answer. "He's bin home all night en lef' his goods to be taken up in the mawnin',"

Now the party of five split up. Dan and Bob Deaton borrowed a gun from Jim's son. They were still intent upon settling their score of bad blood with Anse White, and from the information that Willie had given, it looked reasonable that Anse would be guarding the merchandise that had been brought up the river and consequently an easy victim. Events afterwards proved exactly to the contrary,

It was still pitch dark when the men of the party separated. Smith, Andrew Johnson and Jim Deaton took along with them the provisions with which they had been provided. Like shadows of the night they sought out pathways that led over the hills, parting the spring foliage and avoiding twigs with the skilful craft of the Indians who had roamed these self-same spaces long years before,

At last they arrived on the hill that faced the Callahan store. There was no one awake, no one stirred in the building they faced or in the dwelling beyond.
In the dim morning light the stockade that Ed. Callahan had erected to assure his own safety, grinned at them.

And they laughed back at it. The "Sheriff" might plant his walls and battlements, but there were moments that he was off his guard. A man cannot make himself invulnerable-.that was their theory, Daylight came.
There was no hurry now-this grim business of assassination
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never did permit of haste. Two of the grim-visaged men on the hillside prepared to make sure of their errand when the supreme moment came.

From an overhanging bough their sharp knives slashed a small branch. A few deft cuts and a forked stick was fashioned. They sharpened the end and plunged them into Mother Earth. These made excellent rifle rests. The third was a bit more methodical. Moments were dragging, but he found a way to employ them. He reached here and there for stones, little and big, and built for himself a mound upon which to rest his ever alert gun barrel-the diverting little things that men will do while murderous thoughts crowd out the usual trend of their minds.

Now a wisp of smoke arose from the stone chimney abutting the dwelling of Callahan. The "Sheriff" had many things on his mind -things that called for attention on that day and early. The goods had to be brought from the river, tagged, sorted and placed on the shelves. He must be up and stirring.

Wilson, his son, had been told off to do this and that the night before. Wilson's wife had her housewifely tasks to perform. The younger Callahans were early risers. It was only a matter of an hour or so and Callahan's place was abuzz with its accustomed fuss and flutter.

Still the minutes dragged by. Breakfast time came for the watchers on the hillside and they hungrily devoured the provisions that they had brought from Granville Johnson's place. They took also a few swigs at the whiskey that they brought along to "steddy" them.

Eight o'clock came-they had no means of knowing whether Callahan had come to the store or not-the stockaded runway between the dwelling and the store cut off all view of those who passed from one to the other.

The front of the store-from the angle upon which the men on the hillside looked-also was a protection for its proprietor. True, there was a glass window that gave a partial view of those within the building, but only of the lower torso and nether limbs. Again, they knew that Callahan exercised care and precaution in coming anywhere near this window-it was through it that he had been shot two years before.

Now a new figure appeared within. They had weighed each person who had entered the place and calculated the shadows that
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she first heard the reports of the rifle fire, was working in the far side of the house. Dropping what she was about she rushed through the place to where the family firearms were kept and ready. Seizing a heavy 44 pistol she made her way around the house so that she could come upon the clearance of the roadway.

Upon the hillside the white smoke of the gun fire was still hanging. The green boughs of the trees hid those who might be concealed there. They may have been one or two or a whole band, but that mattered naught to her. She emptied every chamber of the revolver in that direction.

It was this fire that disconcerted the band of three. They did not know how many more might follow in her wake. They could only hope that their mission had been a success-they had not reckoned with either failure or upon being called upon for account themselves.

In a moment all were in flight plunging helter-skelter through the brush, each man for himself, and all keen to get out of the district of danger as soon as possible.

"The longest way around" was now "the shortest way home" for them. No thought was given to the water route now. They plunged on and on until at last the welcome doors of Abe Johnson's home offered them haven. The trio lounged for a while and then nervously had their noontime meal, still unaware of the result of their attack.

Success or failure they still had work to do. Along in the afternoon "Trigger Eye" Deaton answered their summons and, obtaining a johnboat, he rowed them upstream so that they could follow the plan that had been so carefully laid during the week before.

All three chose different routes and when the mantle of night set down over the wilds, wastes and hills of Breathitt, they stole by the trails which had been agreed upon into Jackson.

When the "Sheriff" dropped to the floor of his store he was left to welter there in his own blood for many minutes before attention was afforded him. All thought was upon the actual shooting, the assassins and their flight.

Then one or two persons stole into the place. Callahan's luck was still with him. Of the six bullets that had entered his body, none had reached a vital spot. After an examination by the physician who was hastily summoned it was decided to move him to the Witherspoon Hospital at Buckhorn.