"All right," shouted Caleb; "he done it, an' he's bully good stuff and gets an uncommon grand coup."

"Wish I had gone now," said Guy. "I could 'a' done it just as well as Yan."

"Well, go on now."

"Oh, there ain't any stone to get now for proof."

"You can write your name on the grave, as I did."

"Ah, that wouldn't prove nothin'," and Guy dropped the subject.

Yan did not mean to tell his adventure that night, but his excitement was evident, and they soon got it out of him in full. They were a weird-looking crowd as they sat around the flickering fire, experiencing as he told it no small measure of the scare he had just been through.

When he had finished Yan said, "Now, Guy, don't you want to go and try it?"

"Oh, quit," said Guy; "I never saw such a feller as you for yammering away on the same subjek."

Caleb looked at his watch now, as though about to leave, when Yan said:

"Say, Mr. Clark, won't you sleep here? There's lots o' room in Guy's bed."

"Don't mind if I do, seem' it's late."



XX

The White Revolver

In the morning Caleb had the satisfaction of eating a breakfast prepared by the son of his enemy, for Sam was cook that day.

The Great Woodpecker expressed the thought of the whole assembly when after breakfast he said: "Now I want to go and see that grave. I believe Yan wrote his name on some old cow that was lying down and she didn't like it and said so out loud!"

They arrived at the spot in a few minutes. Yes, there it was plainly written on the rude gravestone, rather shaky, but perfectly legible—"Yan."

"Pretty poor writing," was Guy's remark.

"Well, you sure done it! Good boy!" said Sam warmly. "Don't believe I'd 'a' had the grit."

"Bet I would," said Guy.

"Here's where I crossed the ditch. See my trail in the mud? Out there is where I heard the yelling. Let's see if ghosts make tracks. Hallo, what the—"

There were the tracks in the mud of a big man. He had sprawled, falling on his hands and knees. Here was the print of his hands several times, and in the mud, half hidden, something shining—Guy saw it first and picked it up. It was a white-handled Colt's revolver.

"Let's see that," said Caleb. He wiped off the mud. His eye kindled. "That's my revolver that was stole from me 'way back, time I lost my clothes and money." He looked it over and, glancing about, seemed lost in thought. "This beats me!" He shook his head and muttered from time to time, "This beats me!" There seemed nothing more of interest to see, so the boys turned homeward.

On the way back Caleb was evidently thinking hard. He walked in silence till they got opposite Granny de Neuville's shanty, which was the nearest one to the grave. At the gate he turned and said: "Guess I'm going in here. Say, Yan, you didn't do any of that hollering last night, did you?"

"No, sir; not a word. The only sound I made was dragging the ring-stone over the boulder."

"Well, I'll see you at camp," he said, and turned in to Granny's.

"The tap o' the marnin' to ye, an' may yer sowl rest in pace," was the cheery old woman's greeting. "Come in—come in, Caleb, an' set down. An' how is Saryann an' Dick?"

"They seem happy an' prosperin'," said the old man with bitterness. "Say, Granny, did you ever hear the story about Garney's grave out there on the road?"

"For the love av goodness, an' how is it yer after askin' me that now? Sure an' I heard the story many a time, an' I'm after hearin' the ghost last night, an' it's a-shiverin' yit Oi am."

"What did you hear, Granny?"

"Och, an' it was the most divilish yells iver let out av a soul in hell. Shure the Dog and the Cat both av thim was scairt, and the owld white-faced cow come a-runnin' an' jumped the bars to get aff av the road."

Here was what Caleb wanted, and he kept her going by his evident interest. After she tired of providing more realistic details of the night's uproar, Caleb deliberately tapped another vintage of tittle-tattle in hope of further information leaking out.

"Granny, did you hear of a robbery last week down this side of Downey's Dump?"

"Shure an' I did not," she exclaimed, her eyes ablaze with interest—neither had Caleb, for that matter; but he wanted to start the subject—"An" who was it was robbed?"

"Don't know, unless it was John Evans's place."

"Shure an' I don't know him, but I warrant he could sthand to lose. Shure an' it's when the raskils come after me an' Cal Conner the moment it was talked around that we had sold our Cow; then sez I, it's gittin' onraisonable, an' them divils shorely seems to know whin a wad o' money passes."

"That's the gospel truth. But when wuz you robbed, Granny?"

"Robbed? I didn't say I wuz robbed," and she cackled. "But the robbers had the best av intintions when they came to me," and she related at length her experience with the two who broke in when her Cow was reported sold. She laughed over their enjoyment of the Lung Balm, and briefly told how the big man was sulky and the short, broad one was funny. Their black beards, the "big wan" with his wounded head, his left-handedness and his accidental exposure of the three fingers of the right hand, all were fully talked over.

"When was it, Granny?"

"Och, shure an' it wuz about three years apast."

Then after having had his lungs treated, old Caleb left Granny and set out to do some very hard thinking.

There had been robberies all around for the last four years; There was no clue but this: They were all of the same character; nothing but cash was taken, and the burglars seemed to have inside knowledge of the neighbourhood, and timed all their visits to happen just after the householder had come into possession of a roll of bills.

As soon as Caleb turned in at the de Neuville gate, Yan, acting on a belated thought, said:

"Boys, you go on to camp; I'll be after you in five minutes." He wanted to draw those tracks in the mud and try to trail that man, so went back to the grave.

He studied the marks most carefully and by opening out the book he was able to draw the boot tracks life-size, noting that each had three rows of small hobnails on the heel, apparently put in at home because so irregular, while the sole of the left was worn into a hole. Then he studied the hand tracks, selected the clearest, and was drawing the right hand when something odd caught his attention.

Yes! It appeared in all the impressions of that hand—the middle finger was gone.



Yan followed the track on the road a little way, but at the corner it turned southward and was lost in the grass.

As he was going back to camp he overtook Caleb also returning.

"Mr. Clark," he said. "I went back to sketch those tracks, and do you know—that man had only three fingers on his right hand?"

"Consarn me!" said Caleb. "Are you sure?"

"Come and see for yourself."

Yes! It surely was true, and Caleb on the road back said, "Yan, don't say a word of this to the others just now."

The old Trapper went to the Pogue house at once. He found the tracks repeated in the dust near the door, but they certainly were not made by Dick. On a line was a pair of muddy trousers drying.

From this night Yan went up and Guy went down in the old man's opinion, for he spoke his own mind that day when he gave first place to grit. He invited Yan to come to his shanty to see a pair of snow-shoes he was making. The invitation was vague and general, so the whole Tribe accepted. Yan had not been there since his first visit. The first part of their call was as before. In answer to their knock there was a loud baying from the Hound, then a voice ordering him back. Caleb opened the door, but now said "Step in." If he was displeased with the others coming he kept it to himself. While Yan was looking at the snow-shoes Guy discovered something much more interesting on the old man's bunk; that was the white revolver, now cleaned up and in perfect order. Caleb's delight at its recovery, though not very apparent, was boundless. He had not been able to buy himself another, and this was as warmly welcomed back as though a long-lost only child.

"Say, Caleb, let's try a shot. I bet I kin beat the hull gang," exclaimed Sapwood.

Caleb got some cartridges and pointed to a white blaze on a stump forty yards away. Guy had three or four shots and Yan had the same without hitting the stump. Then Caleb said, "Lemme show you."

His big rugged hand seemed to swallow up the little gun-stock. His long knobbed finger fitted around the lock in a strange but familiar way. Caleb was a bent-arm shot, and the short barrel looked like his own forefinger pointing at the target as he pumped away six times in quick succession. All went into the blaze and two into the charcoal spot that marked the centre.

"By George! Look at that for shooting!" and the boys were loud in their praise.

"Well, twenty year ago I used to be a pretty good shot," Caleb proceeded to explain with an air of unnecessary humility and a very genial expression on his face. "But that's dead easy. I'll show you some real tricks."

Twenty-five feet away he set up three cartridges in a row, their caps toward him, and exploded them in succession with three rapid shots. Then he put the revolver in the side pocket of his coat, and recklessly firing it without drawing, much less sighting or even showing it, he peppered a white blaze at twenty yards. Finally he looked around for an old fruit tin. Then he cocked the revolver, laid it across his right hand next the thumb and the tin across the fingers. He then threw them both in the air with a jerk that sent the revolver up ten feet and the tin twenty. As the revolver came down he seized it and shot a hole through the tin before it could reach the ground.

The boys were simply dumbfounded. They had used up all their exclamations on the first simple target trial.

Caleb stepped into the shanty to get a cleaning-rag for his darling, and Sam burst out:

"Well, now I know he never shot at Da, for if he did he'd 'a' got him sure."

It was not meant for Caleb's ears, but it reached him, and the old Trapper came to the door at once with a long, expressive "H-m-m-mrr."

Thus was broken the dam of silent scorn, for it was the first time Caleb had addressed himself to Sam. The flood had forced the barrier, but it still left plenty of stuff in the channel to be washed away by time and wear, and it was long before he talked to Sam as freely as to the others, but still in time he learned.

There was an air of geniality on all now, and Yan took advantage of this to ask for something he had long kept in mind.

"Mr. Clark, will you take us out for a Coon hunt? We know where there are lots of Coons that feed in a corn patch up the creek."

If Yan had asked this a month ago he would have got a contemptuous refusal. Before the visit to Carney's grave it might have been, "Oh, I dunno—I ain't got time," but he was on the right side of Caleb now, and the answer was:

"Well, yes! Don't mind if I do, first night it's coolish, so the Dog kin run."



XXI

The Triumph Of Guy

The boys had hunted the Woodchuck quite regularly since first meeting it. Their programme was much the same—each morning about nine or ten they would sneak out to the clover field. It was usually Guy who first discovered the old Grizzly, then all would fire a harmless shot, the Woodchuck would scramble into his den and the incident be closed for the day. This became as much a part of the day's routine as getting breakfast, and much more so than the washing of the dishes. Once or twice the old Grizzly had narrow escapes, but so far he was none the worse, rather the better, being wiser. The boys, on the other hand, gained nothing, with the possible exception of Guy. Always quick-sighted, his little washed-out optics developed a marvellous keenness. At first it was as often Yan or Sam who saw the old Grizzly, but later it was always Guy.

One morning Sam approached the game from one point, Guy and Yan from another some yards away. "No Woodchuck!" was the first opinion, but suddenly Guy called "I see him." There in a little hollow fully sixty yards from his den, and nearly a hundred from the boys, concealed in a bunch of clover, Guy saw a patch of gray fur hardly two inches square. "That's him, sure."

Yan could not see it at all. Sam saw but doubted. An instant later the Woodchuck (for it was he) stood up on his hind legs, raised his chestnut breast above the clover, and settled all doubt.

"By George!" exclaimed Yan in admiration. "That is great. You have the most wonderful eyes I ever did see. Your name ought to be 'Hawkeye'—that should be your name."

"All right," shrilled out Guy enthusiastically. "Will you—will you, Sam, will you call me Hawkeye? I think you ought to," he added pleadingly.

"I think so, Sam," said the Second Chief. "He's turned out great stuff, an' it's regular Injun."

"We'll have to call a Council and settle that. Now let's to business."

"Say, Sapwood, you're so smart, couldn't you go round through the woods to your side and crawl through the clover so as get between the old Grizzly and his den?" suggested the Head Chief.

"I bet I can, an' I'll bet a dollar—"

"Here, now," said Yan, "Injuns don't have dollars."

"Well, I'll bet my scalp—my black scalp, I mean—against Sam's that I kill the old Grizzly first."

"Oh, let me do it first—you do it second," said Sam imploringly.

"Errr—yer scared of yer scalp."

"I'll go you," said Sam.

Each of the boys had a piece of black horsehair that he called his scalp. It was tied with a string to the top of his head—and this was what Guy wished to wager.

Yan now interfered: "Quit your squabbling, you Great War Chiefs, an' 'tend to business. If Woodpecker kills old Grizzly he takes Sapwood's scalp; if Sappy kills him he takes the Woodpecker's scalp, an' the winner gets a grand feather, too."

Sam and Yan waited impatiently in the woods while Guy sneaked around. The Woodchuck seemed unusually bold this day. He wandered far from his den and got out of sight in hollows at times. The boys saw Guy crawl through the fence, though the Woodchuck did not. The fact was, that he had always had the enemy approach him from the other side, and was not watching eastward.

Guy, flat on his breast, worked his way through the clover. He crawled about thirty yards and now was between the Woodchuck and his den. Still old Grizzly kept on stuffing himself with clover and watching toward the Raften woods. The boys became intensely excited. Guy could see them, but not the Woodchuck. They pointed and gesticulated. Guy thought that meant "Now shoot." He got up cautiously. The Woodchuck saw him and bounded straight for its den—that is, toward Guy. Guy fired wildly. The arrow went ten feet over the Grizzly's head, and, that "huge, shaking mass of fur" bounding straight at him, struck terror to his soul. He backed up hastily, not knowing where to run. He was close to the den.

The Woodchuck chattered his teeth and plunged to get by the boy, each as scared as could be. Guy gave a leap of terror and fell heavily just as the Woodchuck would have passed under him and home. But the boy weighed nearly 100 pounds, and all that weight came with crushing force on old Grizzly, knocking the breath out of his body. Guy scrambled to his feet to run for his life, but he saw the Woodchuck lying squirming, and plucked up courage enough to give him a couple of kicks on the nose that settled him. A loud yell from the other two boys was the first thing that assured Guy of his victory. They came running over and found him standing like the hunter in an amateur photograph, holding his bow in one hand and the big Woodchuck by the tail in the other.



"Now, I guess you fellers will come to me to larn you how to kill Woodchucks. Ain't he an old socker? I bet he weighs fifty pounds—yes, near sixty." (It weighed about ten pounds.)

"Good boy! Bully boy! Hooray for the Third War Chief! Hooray for Chief Sapwood!" and Guy had no cause to complain of lack of appreciation on the part of the others.

He swelled out his chest and looked proud and haughty. "Wished I knew where there was some more Woodchucks," he said. "I know how to get them, if the rest don't."

"Well, that should count for a grand coup, Sappy."



"You tole me you wuz goin' to call me 'Hawkeye' after this morning."

"We'll have to have a Grand Council to fix that up," replied the Head Chief.

"All right; let's have it this afternoon, will you?"

"All right."

"'Bout four o'clock?"

"Why, yes; any time."

"And you'll fix me up as 'Hawkeye,' and give me a dandy Eagle feather for killing the Woodchuck, at four o'clock?"

"Yes, sure, only, why do you want it at four o'clock?"

But Guy seemed not to hear, and right away after dinner he disappeared.

"He's dodging the dishwashing again," suggested the Woodpecker.

"No, he isn't," said the Second Chief. "I believe he's going to bring his folks to see him in his triumph."

"That's so. Let's chip right in and make it an everlasting old blowout—kind of a new date in history. You'll hear me lie like sixty to help him out."

"Good enough. I'm with you. You go and get your folks. I'll go after old Caleb, and we'll fix it up to call him 'Hawkeye' and give him his grand coup feather all at once."

"'Feard my folks and Caleb wouldn't mix," replied Sam, "but I believe for a splurge like this Guy'd ruther have my folks. You see, Da has the mortgage on their place."

So it was agreed Sam was to go for his mother, while Yan was to prepare the Eagle feather and skin the Woodchuck.

It was not "as big as a bear," but it was a very large Woodchuck, and Yan was as much elated over the victory as any of them. He still had an hour or more before four o'clock, and eager to make Guy's triumph as Indian as possible, he cut off all the Woodchuck's claws, then strung them on a string, with a peeled and pithed Elder twig an inch long between each two. Some of the claws were very, very small, but the intention was there to make a Grizzly-claw necklace.

Guy made for home as fast as he could go. His father hailed him as he neared the garden and evidently had plans of servitude, but Guy darted into the dining-room-living-room-bedroom-kitchen-room, which constituted nine-tenths of the house.

"Oh, Maw, you just ought to seen me; you just want to come this afternoon—I'm the Jim Dandy of the hull Tribe, an they're going to make me Head Chief. I killed that whaling old Woodchuck that pooty nigh killed Paw. They couldn't do a thing without me—them fellers in camp. They tried an' tried more'n a thousand times to get that old Woodchuck—yes, I bet they tried a million times, an' I just waited till they was tired and give up, then I says, 'Now, I'll show you how.' First I had to point him out. Them fellers is no good to see things. Then I says, 'Now, Sam and Yan, you fellers stay here, an' just to show how easy it is when you know how, I'll leave all my bosenarrers behind an' go with nothing.' Wall, there they stood an' watched me, an' I s-n-e-a-k-e-d round the fence an' c-r-a-w-l-e-d in the clover just like an Injun till I got between him an' his hole, and then I hollers and he come a-snortin' an' a-chatterin' his teeth at me to chaw me up, for he seen I had no stick nor nothin', an' I never turned a hair; I kep' cool an' waited till jest as he was going to jump for my throat, then I turned and gave him one kick on the snoot that sent him fifty feet in the air, an' when he come down he was deader'n Kilsey's hen when she was stuffed with onions. Oh, Maw, I'm just the bully boy; they can't do nothin' in camp 'thout me. I had to larn 'em to hunt Deer an' see things—an'—an'—an'—lots o' things, so they are goin' to make me Head Chief of the hull Tribe, an' call me 'Hawkeye,' too; that's the way the Injuns does. It's to be at four o'clock this afternoon, an' you got to come."

Burns scoffed at the whole thing and told Guy to get to work at the potatoes, and if he left down the bars so that the Pig got out he'd skin him alive; he would have no such fooling round his place. But Mrs Burns calmly informed him that she was going. It was to her much like going to see a university degree conferred on her boy.

Since Burns would not assist, the difficulty of the children now arose. This, however, was soon settled. They should go along. It was two hours' toil for the mother to turn the four brown-limbed, nearly naked, dirty, happy towsle-tops into four little martyrs, befrocked, beribboned, becombed and be-booted. Then they all straggled across the field, Mrs. Burns carrying the baby in one arm and a pot of jam in the other. Guy ran ahead to show the way, and four-year-old, three-year-old and two-year-old, hand in hand, formed a diagonal line in the wake of the mother.

They were just a little surprised on getting to camp to find Mrs. Raften and Minnie there in holiday clothes. Marget's first feeling was resentment, but her second thought was a pleasant one. That "stuck-up" woman, the enemy's wife, should see her boy's triumph, and Mrs. Burns at once seized on the chance to play society cat.

"How do ye do, Mrs. Raften; hope you're well," she said with a tinge of malicious pleasure and a grand attempt at assuming the leadership.

"Quite well, thank you. We came down to see how the boys were getting on in camp."

"They've got on very nicely sense my boy j'ined them," retorted Mrs. Burns, still fencing.

"So I understand; the other two have become very fond of him," returned Mrs. Raften, seeking to disarm her enemy.

This speech had its effect. Mrs. Burns aimed only to forestall the foe, but finding to her surprise that the enemy's wife was quite gentle, a truce was made, and by the time Mrs. Raften had petted and praised the four tow-tops and lauded Guy to the utmost the air of latent battle was replaced by one of cordiality.

The boys now had everything ready for the grand ceremony. On the Calfskin rug at one end was the Council; Guy, seated on the skin of the Woodchuck and nearly hiding it from view, Sam on his left hand and Yan with the drum, on his right. In the middle the Council fire blazed. To give air, the teepee cover was raised on the shady side and the circle of visitors was partly in the teepee and partly out.

The Great War Chief first lighted the peace pipe, puffed for a minute, then blew off the four smokes to the four winds and handed it to the Second and Third War Chiefs, who did the same.

Little Beaver gave three thumps on the drum for silence, and the Great Woodpecker rose up:

"Big Chiefs, Little Chiefs, Braves, Warriors, Councillors, Squaws, and Papooses of the Sanger Indians: When our Tribe was at war with them—them—them—other Injuns—them Birchbarks, we took prisoner one of their warriors and tortured him to death two or three times, and he showed such unusual stuff that we took him into our Tribe—"

Loud cries of "How—How—How," led by Yan.

"We gave a sun-dance for his benefit, but he didn't brown—seemed too green—so we called him Sapwood. From that time he has fought his way up from the ranks and got to be Third War Chief—"

"How—How—How."

"The other day the hull Tribe j'ined to attack an' capture a big Grizzly and was licked bad, when the War Chief Sapwood came to the rescue an' settled the owld baste with one kick on the snoot. Deeds like this is touching. A feller that kin kick like that didn't orter be called Sapwood nor Saphead nor Sapanything. No, sirree! It ain't right. He's the littlest Warrior among the War Chiefs, but he kin see farder an' do it oftener an' better than his betters. He kin see round a corner or through a tree. 'Cept maybe at night, he's the swell seer of the outfit, an' the Council has voted to call him 'Hawkeye.'"

"How—How—How—How—How—"

Here Little Beaver handed the Head War Chief a flat white stick on which was written in large letters "Sapwood."

"Here's the name he went by before he was great an' famous, an' this is the last of it." The Chief put the stick in the fire, saying, "Now let us see if you're too green to burn." Little Beaver then handed Woodpecker a fine Eagle feather, red-tufted, and bearing in outline a man with a Hawk's head and an arrow from his eye. "This here's a swagger Eagle feather for the brave deed he done, and tells about him being Hawkeye, too" (the feather was stuck in Guy's hair and the claw necklace put about his neck amid loud cries of "How—How—" and thumps of the drum), "and after this, any feller that calls him Sapwood has to double up and give Hawkeye a free kick."

There was a great chorus of "How—How." Guy tried hard to look dignified and not grin, but it got beyond him. He was smiling right across and half way round. His mother beamed with pride till her eyes got moist and overflowed.

Every one thought the ceremony was over, but Yan stood up and began: "There is something that has been forgotten, Chiefs, Squaws and Pappooses of the Sanger Nation: When we went out after this Grizzly I was witness to a bargain between two of the War Chiefs. According to a custom of our Tribe, they bet their scalps, each that he would be the one to kill the Grizzly. The Head Chief Woodpecker was one and Hawkeye was the other. Hawkeye, you can help yourself to Woodpecker's scalp."

Sam had forgotten about this, but he bowed his head. Guy cut the string, and holding up the scalp, he uttered a loud, horrible war-whoop which every one helped with some sort of noise. It was the crowning event. Mrs. Burns actually wept for joy to see her heroic boy properly recognized at last.

Then she went over to Sam and said, "Did you bring your folks here to see my boy get praised?"

Sam nodded and twinkled an eye.

"Well, I don't care who ye are, Raften or no Raften, you got a good heart, an' it's in the right place. I never did hold with them as says 'There ain't no good in a Raften.' I always hold there's some good in every human. I know your Paw did buy the mortgage on our place, but I never did believe your Maw stole our Geese, an' I never will, an' next time I hear them runnin' on the Raftens I'll jest open out an' tell what I know."



XXII

The Coon Hunt

Yan did not forget the proposed Coon hunt—in fact, he was most impatient for it, and within two days the boys came to Caleb about sundown and reminded him of his promise. It was a sultry night, but Yan was sure it was just right for a Coon hunt, and his enthusiasm carried all before it. Caleb was quietly amused at the "cool night" selected, but reckoned it would be "better later."

"Set down—set down, boys," he said, seeing them standing ready for an immediate start. "There's no hurry. Coons won't be running for three or four hours after sundown."

So he sat and smoked, while Sam vainly tried to get acquainted with old Turk; Yan made notes on some bird wings nailed to the wall, and Guy got out the latest improved edition of his exploits in Deer-hunting and Woodchuck killing, as well as enlarged on his plans for gloriously routing any Coon they might encounter.

By insisting that it would take an hour to get to the place, Yan got them started at nine o'clock, Caleb, on a suggestion from Guy, carrying a small axe. Keeping old Turk well in hand, they took the highway, and for half an hour tramped on toward the "Corners." Led by Sam, they climbed a fence crossed a potato field, and reached the corn patch by the stream.

"Go ahead, Turk. Sic him! Sic him! Sic him!" and the company sat in a row on the fence to await developments.

Turk was somewhat of a character. He hunted what he pleased and when he pleased. His master could bring him on the Coon grounds, but he couldn't make him hunt Coon nor anything else unless it suited his own fancy. Caleb had warned the boys to be still, and they sat along the fence in dead silence, awaiting the summons from the old Hound. He had gone off beating and sniffing among the cornstalks. His steps sounded very loud and his sniffs like puffs of steam. It was a time of tense attention; but the Hound wandered, farther away, and even his noisy steps were lost.

They had sat for two long minutes, when a low yelp from a distant part of the field, then a loud "bow-wow" from the Hound, set Yan's heart jumping.

"Game afoot," said Sam in a low voice.

"Bet I heered him first," piped Guy.

Yan's first thought was to rush pell-mell after the Dog. He had often read of the hunt following furiously the baying of the Hounds, but Caleb restrained him.

"Hold on, boy; plenty of time. Don't know yet what it is."

For Turk, like most frontier Hounds, would run almost any trail—had even been accused of running on his own—and it rested with those who knew him best to discover from his peculiar style of tonguing just what the game might be. But they waited long and patiently without getting another bay from the Hound. Presently a rustling was heard and Turk came up to his master and lay down at his feet.

"Go ahead, Turk, put him up," but the Dog stirred not. "Go ahead," and Caleb gave him a rap with a small stick. The Dog dodged away, but lay down again, panting.

"What was it, Mr. Clark?" demanded Yan.

"Don't hardly know. Maybe he only spiked himself on a snag. But this is sure; there's no Coons here to-night. There won't be after this. We come too early, and it's too hot for the Dog, anyway."

"We could cross the creek and go into Boyle's bush," suggested the Woodpecker. "We're like to strike anything there. Larry de Neuville swears he saw a Unicorn there the night he came back from Garney's wake."

"How can you tell the kind of game by the Dog's barking?" asked Yan.

"H-m!" answered Caleb, as he put a fresh quid in his lantern jaw. "You surely can if you know the country an' the game an' the Dog. Course, no two Dogs is alike; you got to study your Dog, an' if he's good he'll larn you lots about trailing."

The brook was nearly dry now, so they crossed where they would. Then feeling their way through the dark woods with eyes for the most part closed, they groped toward Boyle's open field, then across it to the heavy timber. Turk had left them at the brook, and, following its course till he came to a pool, had had a bath. As they entered the timber tract he joined them, dripping wet and ready for business.

"Go ahead, Turk," and again all sat down to await the opinion of the expert.

It came quickly. The old Hound, after circling about in a way that seemed to prove him independent of daylight, began to sniff loudly, and gave a low whine. He followed a little farther, and now his tail was heard to 'tap, tap, tap' the brush as he went through a dry thicket.

"Hear that? He's got something this time," said Caleb in a low voice. "Wait a little."

The Hound was already working out a puzzle, and when at last he got far enough to be sure, he gave a short bark. There was another spell of sniffing, then another bark, then several little barks at intervals, and at last a short bay; then the baying recommenced, but was irregular and not full-chested. The sounds told that the Hound was running in a circle about the forest, but at length ceased moving, for all the barking was at one place. When the hunters got there they found the Dog half-way in a hole under a stump, barking and scratching.

"Humph," said Caleb; "nothing but a Cottontail. Might 'a' knowed that by the light scent an' the circling without treeing."

So Turk was called off and the company groped through the inky woods in quest of more adventures.

"There's a kind of swampy pond down the lower end of the bush—a likely place for Coons on a Frog-hunt," suggested the Woodpecker.

So the Hound was again "turned on" near the pond. The dry woods were poor for scent, but the damp margin of the marsh proved good, and Turk became keenly interested and very sniffy. A preliminary "Woof!" was followed by one or two yelps and then a full-chested "Boooow!" that left no doubt he had struck a hot trail at last. Oh, what wonderfully thrilling horn-blasts those were! Yan for the first time realized the power of the "full cry," whose praises are so often sung.

The hunters sat down to await the result, for, as Caleb pointed out, there was "no saying where the critter might run."

The Hound bayed his fullest, roundest notes at quick intervals, but did not circle. The sound of his voice told them that the chase was straight away, out of the woods, easterly across an open field, and at a hot pace, with regular, full bellowing, unbroken by turn or doubt.

"I believe he's after the old Callaghan Fox," said the Trapper. "They've tried it together before now, an' there ain't anything but a Fox will run so straight and fetch such a tune out of Turk."

The baying finally was lost in the distance, probably a mile away, but there was nothing for it but to wait. If Turk had been a full-bred and trained Foxhound he would have stuck to that trail all night, but in half an hour he returned, puffing and hot, to throw himself into the shallow pond.

"Everything scared away now," remarked Caleb. "We might try the other side of the pond." Once or twice the dog became interested, but decided that there was nothing in it, and returned to pant by his master's feet.

They had now travelled so far toward home that a very short cut across fields would bring them into their own woods.

The moon arose as they got there, and after their long groping in the murky darkness this made the night seem very bright and clear.

They had crossed the brook below Granny de Neuville's, and were following the old timber trail that went near the stream, when Turk stopped to sniff, ran back and forth two or three times, then stirred the echoes with a full-toned bugle blast and led toward the water.

"Bow—bow—bow—bow," he bawled for forty yards and came to a stop. The baying was exactly the same that he gave on the Fox trail, but the course of the animal was crooked, and now there was a break.

They could hear the dog beating about close at hand and far away, but silent so far as tongue was concerned.

"What is it, Caleb?" said Sam with calm assurance, forgetting how recent was their acquaintance.

"Dunno," was the short reply.

"'Tisn't a Fox, is it?" asked Yan.

But a sudden renewal of "Bow—bow—bow—" from the Hound one hundred yards away, at the fence, ended all discussion. The dog had the hot trail again. The break had been along the line of a fence that showed, as Caleb said, "It was a Coon, 'cept it might be some old house Cat maybe; them was the only things that would run along top of a fence in the night time."

It was easy to follow now; the moonlight was good, and the baying of the Hound was loud and regular. It led right down the creek, crossing several pools and swamps.

"That settles it," remarked the Trapper decisively. "Cats don't take to the water. That's a Coon," and as they hurried they heard a sudden change in the dog's note, no longer a deep rich 'B-o-o-w-w.' It became an outrageous clamour of mingled yelps, growls and barks.

"Ha—heh. That means he's right on it. That is what he does when he sees the critter."

But the "view halloo" was quickly dropped and the tonguing of the dog was now in short, high-pitched yelps at one place.

"Jest so! He's treed! That's a Coon, all right!" and Caleb led straight for the place.

The Hound was barking and leaping against a big Basswood, and Caleb's comment was: "Hm, never knowed a Coon to do any other way—always gets up the highest and tarnalest tree to climb in the hull bush. Now who's the best climber here?"

"Yan is," volunteered Sam.

"Kin ye do it, Yan?"

"I'll try."

"Guess we'll make a fire first and see if we can't see him," said the Woodpecker.

"If it was a Woodchuck I'd soon get him for you," chimed in Hawkeye, but no one heeded.

Sam and Yan gathered stuff and soon had a flood of flickering red light on all the surrounding trees. They scanned the big Basswood without getting sight of their quarry. Caleb took a torch and found on the bark some fresh mud. By going back on the trail to where it had crossed the brook they found the footprint—undoubtedly that of a large Coon.

"Reckon he's in some hollow; he's surely up that tree, and Basswood's are always hollow."

Yan now looked at the large trunk in doubt as to whether he could manage it.

Caleb remarked his perplexity and said: "Yes; that's so. You ain't fifteen foot spread across the wings, are you? But hold on—"

He walked to a tall thin tree near at hand, cut it through with the axe in a few minutes, and threw it so as to rest against the lowest branch of the big Basswood. Up this Yan easily swarmed, carrying a stout Elm stick tied behind. When he got to the great Basswood he felt lost in the green mass, but the boys below carried torches so as to shed light on each part in turn. At first Yan found neither hole in the trunk nor Coon, but after long search in the upper branches he saw a great ball of fur on a high crotch and in it two glowing eyes that gave him a thrill. He yelled: "Here he is! Look out below." He climbed up nearer and tried to push the Coon off, but it braced itself firmly and defied him until he climbed above it, when it leaped and scrambled to a lower branch.

Yan followed it, while his companions below got greatly excited, as they could see nothing, and only judged by the growling and snarling that Yan and the Coon were fighting. After another passage at arms the Coon left the second crotch and scrambled down the trunk till it reached the leaning sapling, and there perched, glaring at the hunters below. The old Hound raised a howl when he saw the quarry, and Caleb, stepping to one side, drew his revolver and fired. The Coon fell dead into their midst. Turk sprang to do battle, but he was not needed, and Caleb fondly and proudly wiped the old white pistol as though it alone were to be thanked for the clever shot.

Yan came down quickly, though he found it harder to get down than up. He hurried excitedly into the ring and stroked the Coon with a mixture of feelings—admiring its fur—sorry, after all, that it was killed, and triumphant that he had led the way. It was his Coon, and all admitted that. Sam "hefted" it by one leg and said, "Weighs thirty pounds, I bet."

Guy said: "Pooh! Tain't half as big as that there big Woodchuck I killed, an' you never would have got him if I hadn't thought of the axe."

Yan thought it would weigh thirty-five pounds. Caleb guessed it at twenty-five (and afterward they found out that it barely weighed eighteen). While they were thus talking the Dog broke into an angry barking such as he gave for strangers—his "human voice," Caleb called it—and at once there stepped into the circle William Raften. He had seen the lights in the woods, and, dreading a fire at this dry season, had dressed and come out.

"Hello, Da; why ain't you in bed, where you ought to be?"

Raften took no notice of his son, but said sneeringly to Caleb: "Ye ain't out trying to get another shot at me, air ye?" 'Tain't worth your while; I hain't got no cash on me to-night."

"Now see here, Da," said Sam, interrupting before Caleb could answer, "you don't play fair. I know, an' you ought to know, that's all rot about Caleb shooting at you. If he had, he'd 'a' got you sure. I've seen him shoot."

"Not when he was drunk."

"Last time I was drunk we was in it together," said Caleb fiercely, finding his voice.

"Purty good for a man as swore he had no revolver," and Raften pointed to Caleb's weapon. "I seen you with that ten years ago. An' sure I'm not scairt of you an' yer revolver," said Raften, seeing Caleb fingering his white pet; "an' I tell ye this. I won't have ye and yer Sheep-killing cur ramatacking through my woods an' making fires this dry saison."

"D—— you, Raften, I've stood all I'm goin' to stand from you." The revolver was out in a flash, and doubtless Caleb would have lived up to his reputation, but Sam, springing to push his father back, came between, and Yan clung to Caleb's revolver arm, while Guy got safely behind a tree.

"Get out o' the way, you kids!" snarled Caleb.

"By all manes," said Raften scoffingly; "now that he's got me unarrumed again. You dhirty coward! Get out av the way, bhoys, an Oi'll settle him," for Raften was incapable of fear, and the boys would have been thrust aside and trouble follow, but that Raften as he left the house had called his two hired men to follow and help fight the fire, and now they came on the scene. One of them was quite friendly with Caleb, the other neutral, and they succeeded in stopping hostilities for a time, while Sam exploded:

"Now see here, Da, 'twould just 'a' served you right if you'd got a hole through you. You make me sick, running on Caleb. He didn't make that fire; 'twas me an' Yan, an' we'll put it out safe enough. You skinned Caleb an' he never done you no harm. You run on him just as Granny de Neuville done on you after she grabbed your groceries. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Tain't square, an' 'tain't being a man. When you can't prove nothin' you ought to shut up."

Raften was somewhat taken aback by this outburst, especially as he found all the company against him. He had often laughed at Granny de Neuville's active hatred against him when he had done her nothing but good. It never occurred to him that he was acting a similar part. Most men would have been furious at the disrespectful manner of their son, but Raften was as insensitive as he was uncowardly. His first shock of astonishment over, his only thought of Sam was, "Hain't he got a cheek! My! but he talks like a lawyer, an' he sasses right back like a fightin' man; belave I'll make him study law instid of tooth-pullin'."

The storm was over, for Caleb's wrath was of the short and fierce kind, and Raften, turning away in moral defeat, growled: "See that ye put that fire out safe. Ye ought all to be in yer beds an' aslape, like dacint folks."

"Well, ain't you dacint?" retorted Sam.

Raften turned away, heeding neither that nor Guy's shrill attempt to interpolate some details of his own importance in this present hunt—"Ef it hadn't been for me they wouldn't had no axe along, Mr. Raften"—but William had disappeared.

The boys put out the fire carefully and made somewhat silently for camp. Sam and Yan carried the Coon between them on a stick, and before they reached the teepee they agreed that the carcass weighed at least eighty pounds.

Caleb left them, and they all turned in at once and slept the sleep of the tired camper.



XXIII

The Banshee's Wail and the Huge Night Prowler

Next day while working on the Coon-skin Sam and Yan discussed thoroughly the unpleasant incident of the night before, but they decided that it would be unwise to speak of it to Caleb unless he should bring up the subject, and Guy was duly cautioned.

That morning Yan went to the mud albums on one of his regular rounds and again found, first that curious hoof-mark that had puzzled him before, and down by the pond album the track of a very large bird—much like a Turkey track, indeed. He brought Caleb to see them. The Trapper said that one was probably the track of a Blue Crane (Heron), and the other, "Well, I don't hardly know; but it looks to me mighty like the track of a big Buck—only there ain't any short of the Long Swamp, and that's ten miles at least. Of course, when there's only out it ain't a track; it's an accident."

"Yes; but I've found lots of them—a trail every time, but not quite enough to follow."

That night after dark, when he was coming to camp with the product of a "massacree," Yan heard a peculiar squawking, guttural sound that rose from the edge of the pond and increased in strength, drawing nearer, till it was a hideous and terrifying uproar. It was exactly the sound that Guy had provoked on that first night when he came and tried to frighten the camp. It passed overhead, and Yan saw for a moment the form of a large slow-flying bird.

Next day it was Yan's turn to cook. At sunrise, as he went for water, he saw a large Blue Heron rise from the edge of the pond and fly on heavy pinions away over the tree-tops. It was a thrilling sight. The boy stood gazing after it, absolutely rapt with delight, and when it was gone he went to the place where it rose and found plenty of large tracks just like the one he had sketched. Unquestionably it was the same bird as on the night before, and the mystery of the Wolf with the sore throat was solved. This explanation seemed quite satisfactory to everybody but Guy. He had always maintained stoutly that the woods were full of Bears right after sundown. Where they went at other times was a mystery, but he "reckoned he hadn't yet run across the bird that could scare him—no, nor the beast, nuther."

Caleb agreed that the grating cry must be that of the Blue Crane, but the screech and wail in the tree-tops at night he could shed no light on.

There were many other voices of the night that became more or less familiar. Some of them were evidently birds; one was the familiar Song-Sparrow, and high over the tree-tops from the gloaming sky they often heard a prolonged sweet song. It was not till years afterward that Yan found out this to be the night-song of the Oven-bird, but he was able to tell them at once the cause of the startling outcry that happened one evening an hour after sundown.

The Woodpecker was outside, the other two inside the teepee. A peculiar sound fell on his ear. It kept on—a succession of long whines, and getting stronger. As it gave no sign of ending, Sam called the other boys. They stood in a row there and heard this peculiar "whine, whine, whine" develop into a loud, harsh "whow, whow, whow."

"It must be some new Heron cry," Yan whispered.

But the sound kept on increasing till it most resembled the yowling of a very strong-voiced Cat, and still grew till each separate "meow" might have been the yell of a Panther. Then at its highest and loudest there was a prolonged "meow" and silence, followed finally by the sweet chant of the Song-sparrow.

A great light dawned on Little Beaver. Now he remembered that voice in Glenyan so long ago, and told the others with an air of certainty:

"Boys, that's the yelling of a Lynx," and the next day Caleb said that Yan was right.

Some days later they learned that another lamb had been taken from the Raften flock that night.

In the morning Yan took down the tom-tom for a little music and found it flat and soft.

"Hallo," said he; "going to rain."

Caleb looked up at him with an amused expression. "You're a reg'lar Injun. It's surely an Injun trick that. When the tom-tom won't sing without being warmed at the fire they allus says 'rain before night.'"

The Trapper stayed late that evening. It had been cloudy all the afternoon, and at sundown it began to rain, so he was invited to supper. The shower grew heavier instead of ending. Caleb went out and dug a trench all round the teepee to catch the rain, then a leader to take it away. After supper they sat around the campfire in the teepee; the wind arose and the rain beat down. Yan had to go out and swing the smoke poles, and again his ear was greeted with the screech. He brought in an armful of wood and made the inside of the teepee a blaze of cheerful light. A high wind now came in gusts, so that the canvas flopped unpleasantly on the poles.

"Where's your anchor rope?" asked the Trapper.

Sam produced the loose end; the other was fastened properly to the poles above. It had never been used, for so far the weather had been fine; but now Caleb sunk a heavy stake, lashed the anchor rope to that, then went out and drove all the pegs a little deeper, and the Tribe felt safe from any ordinary storm.

There was nothing to attract the old Trapper to his own shanty. His heirs had begun to forget that he needed food, and what little they did send was of vilest quality. The old man was as fond of human society as any one, and was easily persuaded now to stay all night, "if you can stand Guy for a bedfeller." So Caleb and Turk settled down for a comfortable evening within, while the storm raged without.

"Say, don't you touch that canvas, Guy; you'll make it leak."

"What, me? Oh, pshaw! How can it leak for a little thing like that?" and Guy slapped it again in bravado.

"All right, it's on your side of the bed," and sure enough, within two minutes a little stream of water was trickling from the place he had rubbed, while elsewhere the canvas turned every drop.

This is well known to all who have camped under canvas during a storm, and is more easily remembered than explained.

The smoke hung heavy in the top of the teepee and kept crowding down until it became unpleasant.

"Lift the teepee cover on the windward side, Yan. There, that's it—but hold on," as a great gust came in, driving the smoke and ashes around in whirlwinds. "You had ought to have a lining. Give me that canvas: that'll do." Taking great care not to touch the teepee cover, Caleb fastened the lining across three pole spaces so that the opening under the canvas was behind it. This turned the draught from their backs and, sending it over their heads, quickly cleared the teepee of smoke as well as kept off what little rain entered by the smoke hole.

"It's on them linings the Injuns paint their records and adventures. They mostly puts their totems on the outside an' their records on the lining."

"Bully," said Sam; "now there's a job for you. Little Beaver; by the time you get our adventures on the inside and our totems on the out I tell you we'll be living in splendour."

"I think," answered Yan indirectly, "we ought to take Mr. Clark into the Tribe. Will you be our Medicine Man?" Caleb chuckled in a quiet way, apparently consenting. "Now I have four totems to paint on the outside," and this was the beginning of the teepee painting that Yan carried out with yellow clay, blue clay dried to a white, yellow clay burned to red, and charcoal, all ground in Coon grease and Pine gum, to be properly Indian. He could easily have gotten bright colours in oil paint, but scorned such White-man's truck, and doubtless the general effect was all the better for it.

"Say, Caleb," piped Guy, "tell us about the Injuns—about their bravery. Bravery is what I like," he added with emphasis, conscious of being now on his own special ground. "Why, I mind the time that old Woodchuck was coming roaring at me—I bet some fellers would just 'a' been so scared—"

"Hssh!" said Sam.

Caleb smoked in silence. The rain pattered on the teepee without; the wind heaved the cover. They all sat silently. Then sounded loud and clear a terrifying "scrrrrrr—oouwurr." The boys were startled—would have been terrified had they been outside or alone.

"That's it—that's the Banshee," whispered Sam.

Caleb looked up sharply.

"What is it?" queried Yan. "We've heard it a dozen times, at least."

Caleb shook his head, made no reply, but turned to his Dog. Turk was lying on his side by the fire, and at this piercing screech he had merely lifted his head, looked backward over his shoulder, turned his big sad eyes on his master, then laid down again.

"Turk don't take no stock in it."

"Dogs never hear a Banshee," objected Sam, "no more than they can see a ghost; anyway, that's what Granny de Neuville says." So the Dog's negative testimony was the reverse of comforting.

"Hawkeye," said the Woodpecker, "you're the bravest one of the crowd. Don't you want to go out and try a shot at the Banshee? I'll lend you my Witch-hazel arrow. We'll give you a grand coup feather if you hit him. Go ahead, now—you know bravery is what you like."

"Yer nothin' but a passel o' blame dumb fools," was the answer, "an' I wouldn't be bothered talking to ye. Caleb, tell us something about the Indians."

"What the Injuns love is bravery," said the Medicine Man with a twinkle in his eye, and everybody but Guy laughed, not very loudly, for each was restrained by the thought that he would rather not be called upon to show his bravery to-night.

"I'm going to bed," said Hawkeye with unnecessary energy.

"Don't forget to roost under the waterspout you started when you got funny," remarked the Woodpecker.

Yan soon followed Guy's example, and Sam, who had already learned to smoke, sat up with Caleb. Not a word passed between them until after Guy's snore and Yan's regular puffs told of sound sleep, when Sam, taking advantage of a long-awaited chance, opened out rather abruptly:

"Say, Caleb, I ain't going to side with no man against Da, but I know him just about as well as he knows me. Da's all right; he's plumb and square, and way down deep he's got an awful kind heart; it's pretty deep, I grant you, but it's there, O.K. The things he does on the quiet to help folks is done on the quiet and ain't noticed. The things he does to beat folks—an' he does do plenty—is talked all over creation. But I know he has a wrong notion of you, just as you have of him, and it's got to be set right."

Sam's good sense was always evident, and now, when he laid aside his buffoonery, his voice and manner were very impressive—more like those of a grown man than of a fifteen-year-old boy.

Caleb simply grunted and went on smoking, so Sam continued, "I want to hear your story, then Ma an' me'll soon fix Da."

The mention of "Ma" was a happy stroke. Caleb had known her from youth as a kind-hearted girl. She was all gentleness and obedience to her husband except in matters of what she considered right and wrong, and here she was immovable. She had always believed in Caleb, even after the row, and had not hesitated to make known her belief.

"There ain't much to tell," replied Caleb bitterly. "He done me on that Horse-trade, an' crowded me on my note so I had to pay it off with oats at sixty cents, then he turned round and sold them within half an hour for seventy-five cents. We had words right there, an' I believe I did say I'd fix him for it. I left Downey's Dump early that day. He had about $300 in his pocket—$300 of my money—the last I had in the world. He was too late to bank it, so was taking it home, when he was fired at in going through the 'green bush'. My tobacco pouch and some letters addressed to me was found there in the morning. Course he blamed me, but I didn't have any shootin'-iron then; my revolver, the white one, was stole from me a week before—along with them same letters, I expect. I consider they was put there to lay the blame on me, an' it was a little overdone, most folks would think. Well, then your Da set Dick Pogue on me, an' I lost my farm—that's all."

Sam smoked gravely for awhile, then continued:

"That's true about the note an' the oats an' the Horse-trade—just what Da would do; that's all in the game: but you're all wrong about Dick Pogue—that's too dirty for Da."

"You may think so, but I don't."

Sam made no answer, but after a minute laid his hand on Turk, who responded with a low growl. This made Caleb continue: "Down on me, down on my Dog. Pogue says he kills Sheep 'an' every one is ready to believe it. I never knowed a Hound turn Sheep-killer, an' I never knowed a Sheep-killer kill at home, an' I never knowed a Sheep-killer content with one each night, an' I never knowed a Sheep-killer leave no tracks, an' Sheep was killed again and again when Turk was locked up in the shanty with me."

"Well, whose Dog is it does it?"

"I don't know as it's any Dog, for part of the Sheep was eat each time, they say, though I never seen one o' them that was killed or I could tell. It's more likely a Fox or a Lynx than a Dog."

There was a long silence, then outside again the hair-lifting screech to which the Dog paid no heed, although the Trapper and the boy were evidently startled and scared.

They made up a blazing fire and turned in silently for the night.

The rain came down steadily, and the wind swept by in gusts. It was the Banshee's hour, and two or three times, as they were dropping off, that fearful, quavering human wail, "like a woman in distress," came from the woods to set their hearts a-jumping, not Caleb and Sam only, but all four.

In the diary which Yan kept of those times each day was named after its event; there was Deer day, Skunk-and-Cat day, Blue Crane day, and this was noted down as the night of the Banshee's wailing.

Caleb was up and had breakfast ready before the others were fully awake. They had carefully kept and cleaned the Coon meat, and Caleb made of it a "prairie pie," in which bacon, potatoes, bread, one small onion and various scraps of food were made important. This, warmed up for breakfast and washed down with coffee, made a royal meal, and feasting they forgot the fears of the night.

The rain was over, but the wind kept on. Great blockish clouds were tumbling across the upper sky Yan went out to look for tracks. He found none but those of raindrops.

The day was spent chiefly about camp, making arrows and painting the teepee.

Again Caleb was satisfied to sleep in the camp. The Banshee called once that night, and again Turk seemed not to hear, but half an hour later there was a different and much lower sound outside, a light, nasal "wow." The boys scarcely heard it, but Turk sprang up with bristling hair, growling, and forcing his way out under the door, he ran, loudly barking, into the woods.

"He's after something now, all right," said his master; "and now he's treed it," as the Dog began his high-pitched yelps.

"Good old Dog; he's treed the Banshee," and Yan rushed out into the darkness. The others followed, and they found Turk barking and scratching at a big leaning Beech, but could get no hint of what the creature up it might be like.

"How does he usually bark for a Banshee?" asked the Woodpecker, but got no satisfaction, and wondering why Turk should bother himself so mightily over a little squeal and never hear that awful scream, they retired to camp.

Next morning in the mud not far from the teepee Yan found the track of a common Cat, and shrewdly guessed that this was the prowler that had been heard and treed by the Dog; probably it was his old friend of the Skunk fight. The wind was still high, and as Yan pored over the tracks he heard for the first time in broad daylight the appalling screech. It certainly was loud, though less dreadful than at night, and peering up Yan saw two large limbs that crossed and rubbed each other, when the right puff of wind came. This was the Banshee that did the wailing that had scared them all—all but the Dog. His keener senses, unspoiled by superstition, had rightly judged the awful sound as the harmless scraping of two limbs in the high wind, but the lower, softer noise made by the prowling Cat he had just as truly placed and keenly followed up.

Guy was the only one not convinced. He clung to his theory of Bears.

Late in the night the two Chiefs were awakened by Guy. "Say, Sam—Sam. Yan—Yan—Yan—Yan, get up; that big Bear is 'round again. I told you there was a Bear, an' you wouldn't believe me."

There was a loud champing sound outside, and occasionally growls or grumbling.

"There's surely something there, Sam. I wish Turk and Caleb were here now."

The boys opened the door a little and peered out. There, looming up in the dim starlight, was a huge black animal, picking up scraps of meat and digging up the tins that were buried in the garbage hole. All doubts were dispelled. Guy had another triumph, and he would have expressed his feelings to the full but for fear of the monster outside.

"What had we better do?"

"Better not shoot him with arrows. That'll only rile him. Guy, you blow up the coals and get a blaze."

All was intense excitement now, "Oh, why haven't we got a gun!"

"Say, Sam, while Sap—I mean Hawkeye—makes a blaze, let's you and me shoot with blunt arrows, if the Bear comes toward the teepee." So they arranged themselves, Guy puttering in terror at the fire and begging them not to shoot.

"What's the good o' riling him? It—it—it's croo-oo-el."

Sam and Yan stood with bows ready and arrows nocked.

Guy was making a failure of the fire, and the Bear began nosing nearer, champing his teeth and grunting. Now the boys could see the great ears as the monster threw up its head.

"Let's shoot before he gets any nearer." At this Guy promptly abandoned further attempts to make a fire and scrambled up on a cross stick that was high in the teepee for hanging the pot. He broke out into tears when he saw Sam and Yan actually drawing their bows.

"He'll come in and eat us, he will."

But the Bear was coming anyway, and having the two tomahawks ready, the boys let fly. At once the Bear wheeled and ran off, uttering the loud, unmistakable squeal of an old Pig—Burns's own Pig—for young Burns had again forgotten to put up the bars that crossed his trail from the homestead to the camp.

Guy came down quickly to join in the laugh. "I tole you fellers not to shoot. I just believed it was our old Hog, an' I couldn't help crying when I thought how mad Paw'd be when he found out."

"I s'pose you got up on that cross pole to see if Paw was coming, didn't you?"

"No; he got up there to show how brave he was."

This was the huge night prowler that Guy had seen, and in the morning one more mystery was explained, for careful examination of Yan's diary of the big Buck's track showed that it was nothing more than the track of Burns's old Hog. Why had Caleb and Raften both been mistaken? First, because it was a long time since they had seen a Buck track, and second, because this Pig happened to have a very unpiggy foot—one as much like that of a Buck as of a Hog.



XXIV

Hawkeye Claims Another Grand Coup

"Wa wa wa wa wa! Wa wa wa wa wa! Wa wa wa wa wa!" Three times it echoed through the woods—a loud, triumphant cry.

"That's Hawkeye with a big story of bravery; let's hide."

So Sam and Yan scrambled quickly into the teepee, hid behind the lining and watched through an "arrow hole." Guy came proudly stepping, chin in air, uttering his war-whoop at intervals as he drew near, and carrying his coat bundled up under one arm.

"Coup! Grand coup! Wa wa wa wa!" he yelled again and again, but looked simple and foolish when he found the camp apparently deserted.

So he ceased his yells and, walking deliberately into the teepee, pulled out the sugar box and was stuffing a handful into his mouth when the other two Chiefs let off their wildest howls and, leaping from their concealment, chased him into the woods—not far, for Yan laughed too much, and Sam had on but one boot.

This was their re-gathering after a new search for adventures. Early in the morning, as he wiped off the breakfast knives by sticking them into the sod, the Second War Chief had suggested: "Say, boys, in old days Warriors would sometimes set out in different directions in search of adventure, then agree to meet at a given time. Let's do that to-day and see what we run across."

"Get your straws," was Woodpecker's reply, as he returned from putting the scraps on the Wakan Rock.

"No you don't," put in Hawkeye hastily; "at least, not unless you let me hold the straws. I know you'll fix it so I'll have to go home."

"All right. You can hold the three straws; long one is Woodpecker—that's his head with a bit of red flannel to prevent mistakes; the middle-sized thin one is me; and the short fat one is you. Now let them drop. Sudden death and no try over."

The straws fell, and the two boys gave a yell as Hawkeye's fate pointed straight to the Burns homestead.

"Oh, get out; that's no good. We'll take the other end," he said angrily, and persisted in going the opposite way.

"Now we all got to go straight till we find something, and meet here again when that streak of sunlight gets around in the teepee to that pole."

As the sunstreak, which was their Indian clock, travelled just about one pole for two hours, this gave about four hours for adventures.

Sam and Yan had been back some minutes, and now Guy, having recovered his composure, bothered not to wipe the stolen sugar from his lips, but broke out eagerly:

"Say, fellers, I bet I'm the bully boy. I bet you I—"

"Silence!" roared Woodpecker. "You come last."

"All right; I don't care. I bet I win over all of you. I bet a million dollars I do."

"Go ahead, Chief Woodpecker-settin'-on-the-edge."

So Sam began:

"I pulls on my boots" [he went barefooted half the time]. "Oh, I tell you I know when to wear my boots—an' I set out following my straw line straight out. I don't take no back track. I'm not scared of the front trail," and he turned his little slit eyes sadly on Guy, "and I kep' right on, and when I came to the dry bed of the creek it didn't turn me; no, not a dozen rods; and I kept right till I came to a Wasp's nest, and I turned and went round that coz it's cruel to go blundering into a nest of a lot of poor innocent little Wasps—and I kep' on, till I heard a low growl, and I looked up and didn't see a thing. Then the growling got louder, and I seen it was a hungry Chipmunk roaring at me and jest getting ready to spring. Then when I got out my bonearrer he says to me, he says, as bold as brass 'Is your name Woodpecker?' Now that scared me, and so I told a lie—my very first. I says, says I. 'No,' says I. 'I'm Hawkeye.' Well, you should 'a seen him. He just turned pale; every stripe on his back faded when I said that name, and he made for a hollow log and got in. Now I was mad, and tried to get him out, but when I'd run to one end he'd run to the other, so we ran up and down till I had a deep-worn trail alongside the log, an' he had a deep-worn trail inside the log, an' I was figgerin' to have him wear it right through at the bottom so the log'd open, but all of a sudden I says, 'I know what to do for you.' I took off my boot and stuffs the leg into one end of the log. Then I rattles a stick at the other end and I heard him run into the boot. Then I squeezes in the leg and ties a string around it an' brings him home, me wearing one boot and the Chipmunk the other, and there he is in it now," and Sam curled up his free bunch of toes in graphic comment and added: "Humph! I s'pose you fellers thought I didn't know what I was about when I drawed on my long boots this morning."

"Well, I just want to see that Chipmunk an' maybe I'll believe you."

"In there hunting for a loose patch," and Sam held up the boot.

"Let's turn him out," suggested the Second Chief.

So the string was cut and the Chipmunk scrambled out and away to a safer refuge.

"Now, sonny," said Sam, as it disappeared, "don't tell your folks what happened you or they'll swat you for a liar."

"Oh, shucks! That's no adventure. Why, I—"

"Hold on, Hawkeye; Little Beaver next."

"Well, I don't care. I bet I—"

Sam grabbed his knife and interrupted: "Do you know what Callahan's spring lamb did when it saw the old man gathering mint? Go ahead, Little Beaver."

"I hadn't much of an adventure, but I went straight through the woods where my straw pointed and ran into a big dead stub. It was too old and rotten for Birds to use now, as well as too late in the season, so I got a pole and pushed it over, and I found the whole history of a tenement in that stub. First of all, a Flicker had come years ago and dug put a fine big nesting-place, and used it maybe two or three times. When he was through, or maybe between seasons, the Chickadees made a winter den of it, for there were some Chickadee tail-feathers in the bottom. Next a Purple Blackbird came and used the hole, piling up a lot of roots with mud on them. Next year it seems it came again and made another nest on top of the last; then that winter the Chickadees again used it for a cubby-hole, for there were some more Chickadee feathers. Next year a Blue Jay found it out and nested there. I found some of her egg-shells among the soft stuff of the nest. Then I suppose a year after a pair of Sparrow-hawks happened on the place, found it suited them, and made their nest in it and hatched a brood of little Sparrow-hawks. Well, one day this bold robber brought home to his little ones a Shrew."

"What's that?"

"Oh, a little thing like a Mouse, only it isn't a Mouse at all; it is second cousin to a Mole."

"I allus thought a Mole was a Mouse specie," remarked Hawkeye, not satisfied with Yan's distinction.

"Oh, you!" interrupted Sam. "You'll try to make out the Burnses is some kin to the Raftens next."

"I bet I won't!" and for once Guy got even.

"Well," Yan continued, "it so happened—about the first time in about a million years—the little Hawks were not hungry just then. The Shrew wasn't gobbled up at once, and though wounded, it set to work to escape as soon as it was free of the old one's claws. First it hid under the little ones, then it began to burrow down through the feather-bed of the Sparrow-hawk's nest, then through the Blue Jay's nest, then through the soft stuff of the Blackbird's nest and among the old truck left by the Chickadees till it struck the hard mud floor of the Blackbird's nest, and through that it could not dig. Its strength gave out now, and it died there and lay hidden in the lowest nest of the house, till years after I came by and broke open the old stub and made it tell me a sad and mournful story—that—maybe—never happened at all. But there's the drawing I made of it at the place, showing all the nests just as I found them, and there's the dried up body of the little Shrew."

Sam listened with intense interest, but Guy was at no pains to conceal his contempt. "Oh, pshaw! That's no adventure—just a whole lot of 's'posens' without a blame thing doing. Now I'll tell you what I done. I—"

"Now, Hawkeye," Sam put in, "please don't be rough about it. Leave out the awful things: I ain't well to-day. You keep back the scary parts till to-morrow."

"I tell you I left here and went straight as a die, an' I seen a Woodchuck, but he wasn't in line, so I says: 'No, some other day. I kin get you easy any time.' Then I seen a Hawk going off with a Chicken, but that was off my beat, an' I found lots o' old stumps an' hundreds o' Chipmunks an' wouldn't be bothered with them. Then I come to a farmhouse an'—an' I went around that so's not to scare the Dog, an' I went pretty near as far as Downey's Dump—yes, a little a-past it—only to one side—when up jumps a Partridge as big as a Turkey, an' a hull gang of young ones—about thirty or forty. I bet I seen them forty rod away, an' they all flew, but one that lighted on a tree as far as—oh, 'cross that field, anyway. I bet you fellers wouldn't 'a' seen it at all. Well, I jest hauled off as ca'm as ca'm an' let him have it. I aimed straight for his eye—an' that's where I hit him. Now who gets a grand coup, for there he is!" Hawkeye unrolled his coat and turned out a bobtailed young Robin in the speckled plumage, shot through the body.

"So that's your Partridge. I call that a young Robin," said the First Chief with slow emphasis. "Rules is broke. Killed a Song-bird. Little Beaver, arrest the criminal."

But Hawkeye struggled with all the ferocity born of his recent exploit, and had to be bound hand and foot while a full Council was called to try the case. The angry protests weakened when he found how serious the Councillors were. Finally he pleaded "guilty" and was condemned to wear a black feather of disgrace and a white feather for cowardice for three days, as well as wash the dishes for a week. They would also have made him cook for that term, but that they had had some unhappy experiences with some dishes of Guy's make.

"Well, I won't do it, that's all," was the prisoner's defiant retort. "I'll go home first."

"And hoe the garden? Oh, yes; I think I see you."

"Well, I won't do it. You better let me 'lone."

"Little Beaver, what do they do when an Injun won't obey the Council?"

"Strip him of his honours. Do you remember that stick we burned with 'Sapwood' on it?"

"Good idee. We'll burn Hawkeye for a name and dig up the old one"

"No, you won't, you dirty mean Skunks! Ye promised me you'd never call me that again. I am Hawkeye. I kin see farder'n—n—" and he began to weep.

"Well, will you obey the Council?"

"Yes; but I won't wear no white feather—I'm brave, boohoo!"

"All right. We'll leave that off; but you must do the other punishments.

"Will I still be Hawkeye?"

"Yes."

"All right. I'll do it."



XXV

The Three-Fingered Tramp.

Broad-shouldered, beetle-browed, brutal and lazy was Bill Hennard, son of a prosperous settler. He had inherited a fine farm, but he was as lazy as he was strong, and had soon run through his property and followed the usual course from laziness to crime. Bill had seen the inside of more than one jail. He was widely known in the adjoining township of Emolan; many petty thefts were traced to him, and it was openly stated that but for the help of a rich and clever confederate he would certainly be in the penitentiary. It was darkly hinted, further, that this confederate was a well-to-do Sangerite who had many farms and a wife and son and a little daughter, and his first name was William, and his second name Ra—— "But never mind; and don't for the world say I told you." Oh, it's easy to get rich—if you know how. Of course, these rumours never reached the parties chiefly concerned.

Hennard had left Downey's Dump the evening before, and avoiding the roads, had struck through the woods, to visit his partner, with important matters to arrange—very important for Hennard. He was much fuddled when he left Downey's, the night was cloudy, and consequently he had wandered round and round till he was completely lost. He slept under a tree (a cold, miserable sleep it was), and in the sunless morning he set out with little certainty to find his "pal." After some time he stumbled on the trail that led him to the boys' camp. He was now savage with hunger and annoyance, and reckless with bottle assistance, for he carried a flask. No longer avoiding being seen, he walked up to the teepee just as Little Beaver was frying meat for the noonday meal he expected to eat alone. At the sound of footsteps Yan turned, supposing that one of his companions had come back, but there instead was a big, rough-looking tramp.



"Well, sonny, cookin' dinner? I'll be glad to j'ine ye," he said with an unpleasant and fawning smile.

His manner was as repulsive as it could be, though he kept the form of politeness.

"Where's your folks, sonny?"

"Haven't any—here," replied Yan, in some fear, remembering now the tramps of Glenyan.

"H-m—all alone—camped all alone, are ye?"

"The other fellers are away till the afternoon."

"Wall, how nice. Glad to know it. I'll trouble you to hand me that stick," and now the tramp's manner changed from fawning to command, as he pointed to Yan's bow hanging unstrung.

"That's my bow!" replied Yan, in fear and indignation.

"I won't tell ye a second time—hand me that stick, or I'll spifflicate ye."

Yan stood still. The desperado strode forward, seized the bow, and gave him two or three blows on the back and legs.

"Now, you young Pup, get me my dinner, and be quick about it, or I'll break yer useless neck."

Yan now realized that he had fallen into the power of the worst enemy of the harmless camper, and saw too late the folly of neglecting Raften's advice to have a big Dog in camp. He glanced around and would have run, but the tramp was too quick for him and grabbed him by the collar. "Oh, no you don't; hold on, sonny. I'll fix you so you'll do as you're told." He cut the bowstring from its place, and violently throwing Yan down, he tied his feet so that they had about eighteen inches' play.

"Now rush around and get my dinner; I'm hungry. An' don't you spile it in the cooking or I'll use the gad on you; an' if you holler or cut that cord I'll kill ye. See that?" and he got out an ugly-looking knife.

Tears of fear and pain ran down Yan's face as he limped about to obey the brute's orders.

"Here, you move a little faster!" and the tramp turned from poking the fire with the bow to give another sounding blow. If he had looked down the trail he would have seen a small tow-topped figure that turned and scurried away at the sound.

Yan was trained to bear punishment, but the tyrant seemed careless of even his life.

"Are you going to kill me?" he burst out, after another attack for stumbling in his shackles.

"Don't know but I will when I've got through with ye," replied the desperado with brutal coolness. "I'll take some more o' that meat—an' don't you let it burn, neither. Where's the sugar for the coffee? I'll get a bigger club if ye don't look spry," and so the tramp was served with his meal. "Now bring me some tobaccer."

Yan hobbled into the teepee and reached down Sam's tobacco bag.

"Here, what's that box? Bring that out here," and the tramp pointed to the box in which they kept some spare clothes. Yan obeyed in fear and trembling. "Open it."

"I can't. It's locked, and Sam has the key."

"He has, has he? Well, I have a key that will open it," and so he smashed the lid with the axe; then he went through the pockets, got Yan's old silver watch and chain, and in Sam's trousers pocket he got two dollars.

"Ha! That's just what I want, sonny," and the tramp put them in his own pockets. "'Pears to me the fire needs a little wood," he remarked, as his eye fell on Yan's quiverful of arrows, and he gave that a kick that sent many of them into the blaze.

"Now, sonny, don't look at me quite so hard, like you was taking notes, or I may have to cut your throat and put you in the swamp hole to keep ye from telling tales."

Yan was truly in terror of his life now.

"Bring me the whetstone," the tyrant growled, "an' some more coffee." Yan did so. The tramp began whetting his long knife, and Yan saw two things that stuck in his memory: first, the knife, which was of hunting pattern, had a brass Deer on the handle; second, the hand that grasped it had only three fingers.

"What's that other box in there?"

"That's—that's—only our food box."

"You lie to me, will ye?" and again the stick descended. "Haul it out."

"I can't."

"Haul it out or I'll choke ye."

Yan tried, but it was too heavy.

"Get out, you useless Pup!" and the tramp walked into the teepee and gave Yan a push that sent him headlong out on the ground.

The boy was badly bruised, but saw his only chance. The big knife was there. He seized it, cut the cord on his legs, flung the knife afar in the swamp and ran like a Deer. The tramp rushed out of the teepee yelling and cursing. Yan might have gotten away had he been in good shape, but the tramp's cruelty really had crippled him, and the brute was rapidly overtaking him. As he sped down the handiest, the south trail, he sighted in the trees ahead a familiar figure, and yelling with all his remaining strength, "Caleb! Caleb!! Caleb Clark!!!" he fell swooning in the grass.

There is no mistaking the voice of dire distress. Caleb hurried up, and with one impulse he and the tramp grappled in deadly struggle. Turk was not with his master, and the tramp had lost his knife, so it was a hand-to-hand conflict. A few clinches, a few heavy blows, and it was easy to see who must win. Caleb was old and slight. The tramp, strong, heavy-built, and just drunk enough to be dangerous, was too much for him, and after a couple of rounds the Trapper fell writhing with a foul blow. The tramp felt again for his knife, swore savagely, looked around for a club, found only a big stone, and would have done no one knows what, when there was a yell from behind, another big man crashed down the trail, and the tramp faced William Raften, puffing and panting, with Guy close behind. The stone meant for Caleb he hurled at William, who dodged it, and now there was an even fight. Had the tramp had his knife it might have gone hard with Raften, but fist to fist the farmer had the odds. His old-time science turned the day, and the desperado went down with a crusher "straight from the shoulder."

It seemed a veritable battle-field—three on the ground and Raften, red-faced and puffing, but sturdy and fearless, standing in utter perplexity.

"Phwhat the divil does it all mane?"

"I'll tell you, Mr. Raften," chirped in Guy, as he stole from his safe shelter.

"Oh, ye're here, are ye, Guy? Go and git a rope at camp—quick now," as the tramp began to move.

As soon as the rope came Raften tied the fellow's arms safely.

"'Pears to me Oi've sane that hand befoore," remarked Raften, as the three fingers caught his eye.

Yan was now sitting up, gazing about in a dazed way. Raften went over to his old partner and said: "Caleb, air ye hurrt? It's me—it's Bill Raften. Air ye hurrt?"

Caleb rolled his eyes and looked around.

Yan came over now and knelt down. "Are you hurt, Mr. Clark?"

He shook his head and pointed to his chest.

"He's got his wind knocked out," Raften explained; "he'll be all right in a minute or two. Guy, bring some wather."

Yan told his story and Guy supplied an important chapter. He had returned earlier than expected, and was near to camp, when he heard the tramp beating Yan. His first impulse to run home to his puny father was replaced with the wiser one to go for brawny Mr. Raften.

The tramp was now sitting up and grumbling savagely.

"Now, me foine feller," said William. "We'll take ye back to camp for a little visit before we take ye to the 'Pen.' A year in the cooler will do ye moore good, Oi'm thinkin', than anny other tratement. Here, Guy, you take the end av the rope and fetch the feller to camp, while I help Caleb."

Guy was in his glory. The tramp was forced to go ahead; Guy followed, jerking the rope and playing Horse, shouting, "Ch'—ch'—ch'—get up, Horsey," while William helped old Caleb with a gentleness that recalled a time long ago when Caleb had so helped him after a falling tree had nearly killed him in the woods.

At camp they found Sam. He was greatly astonished at the procession, for he knew nothing of the day's events, and fearfully disappointed he was on learning what he had missed.

Caleb still looked white and sick when they got him to the fire, and Raften said, "Sam, go home and get your mother to give you a little brandy."

"You don't need to go so far," said Yan, "for that fellow has a bottle in his pocket."

"I wouldn't touch a dhrap of annything he has, let alone give it to a sick friend," was William's reply.

So Sam went for the brandy and was back with it in half an hour.

"Here now, Caleb," said William, "drink that now an' ye'll feel better," and as he offered the cup he felt a little reviving glow of sympathy for his former comrade.

When Sam went home that morning it was with a very clear purpose. He had gone straight to his mother and told all he knew about the revolver and the misunderstanding with Caleb, and they two had had a long, unsatisfactory interview with the father. Raften was brutal and outspoken as usual. Mrs. Raften was calm and clear-witted. Sam was shrewd. The result was a complete defeat for William—a defeat that he would not acknowledge; and Sam came back to camp disappointed for the time being, but now to witness the very thing he had been striving for—his father and the Trapper reconciled; deadly enemies two hours ago, but now made friends through a fight. Though overpowered in argument, Raften's rancour was not abated, but rather increased toward the man he had evidently misused, until the balance was turned by the chance of his helping that man in a time of direst straits.



XXVI

WINNING BACK THE FARM

Oh, the magic of the campfire! No unkind feeling long withstands its glow. For men to meet at the same campfire is to come closer, to have better understanding of each other, and to lay the foundations of lasting friendship. "He and I camped together once!" is enough to explain all cordiality between the men most wide apart, and Woodcraft days are days of memories happy, bright and lifelong.

To sit at the same camp fireside has always been a sacred bond, and the scene of twenty years before was now renewed in the Raften woods, thanks to that campfire lit a month before—the sacred fire. How well it had been named! William and Caleb were camped together in good fellowship again, marred though it was with awkwardness as yet, but still good fellowship.

Raften was a magistrate. He sent Sam with an order to the constable to come for the prisoner. Yan went to the house for provisions and to bring Mrs. Raften, and Guy went home with an astonishing account of his latest glorious doings. The tramp desperado was securely fastened to a tree; Caleb was in the teepee lying down. Raften went in for a few minutes, and when he came out the tramp was gone. His bonds were cut, not slipped. How could he nave gotten away without help?

"Never mind," said Raften. "That three-fingered hand is aisy to follow. Caleb, ain't that Bill Hennard?"

"I reckon."

The men had a long talk. Caleb told of the loss of his revolver—he was still living in the house with the Pogues then—and of its recovery. They both remembered that Hennard was close by at the time of the quarrel over the Horse-trade. There was much that explained itself and much of mystery that remained.

But one thing was clear. Caleb had been tricked out of everything he had in the world, for it was just a question of days now before Pogue would, in spite of Saryann, throw off all pretense and order Caleb from the place to shift for himself.

Raften sat a long time thinking, then said:

"Caleb, you do exactly as Oi tell ye and ye'll get yer farrum back. First, Oi'll lend ye wan thousand dollars for wan week."

A thousand dollars!!! Caleb's eyes opened, and what was next he did not then learn, for the boys came back and interrupted, but later the old Trapper was fully instructed.

When Mrs. Raften heard of it she was thunderstruck. A thousand dollars in Sanger was like one hundred thousand dollars in a big city. It was untold wealth, and Mrs. Raften fairly gasped.

"A thousand dollars, William! Why! isn't that a heavy strain to put on the honesty of a man who thinks still that he has some claim on you? Is it safe to risk it?"

"Pooh!" said William. "Oi'm no money-lender, nor spring gosling nayther. Thayer's the money Oi'll lend him," and Raften produced a roll of counterfeit bills that he as magistrate had happened to have in temporary custody. "Thayer's maybe five hundred or six hundred dollars, but it's near enough."

Caleb, however, was allowed to think it real money, and fully prepared, he called at his own—the Pogue house—the next day, knocked, and walked in.

"Good morning, father," said Saryann, for she had some decency and kindness.

"What do you want here?" said Dick savagely; "bad enough to have you on the place, without forcing yerself on us day and night."

"Hush now, Dick; you forget—"

"Forget—I don't forget nothin'," retorted Dick, interrupting his wife. "He had to help with the chores an' work, an' he don't do a thing and expects to live on me."

"Oh, well, you won't have me long to bother you," said Caleb sadly, as he tottered to a chair. His face was white and he looked sick and shaky.

"What's the matter, father?"

"Oh, I'm pretty bad. I won't last much longer You'll be quit o' me before many days."

"Big loss!" grumbled Dick.

"I—I give you my farm an' everything I had—"

"Oh, shut up. I'm sick of hearing about it."

"At least—'most—everything. I—I—I—didn't say nothing about a little wad o'—o'—bills I had stored away. I—I—" and the old man trembled violently—"I'm so cold."

"Dick, do make a fire," said his wife.

"I won't do no sich fool trick. It's roastin' hot now."

"'Tain't much," went on the trembling old man, "only fif—fif—teen hundred—dollars. I got it here now," and he drew out the roll of greenbacks.

FIFTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS! Twice as much as the whole farm and stock were worth! Dick's eyes fairly popped out, and Caleb was careful to show also the handle of the white revolver.

"Why, father," exclaimed Saryann, "you are ill: Let me go get you some brandy. Dick, make a fire. Father is cold as ice."

"Yes—please—fire—I'm all of—a—tremble—with—cold."

Dick rushed around now and soon the big fire place was filled with blaze and the room unpleasantly warm.

"Here, father, have some brandy and water," said Dick, in a very different tone. "Would you like a little quinine?"

"No, no—I'm better now; but I was saying—I only got a few days to live, an' having no legal kin—this here wad'd go to the gover'ment, but I spoke to the lawyer, an' all I need do—is—add—a word to the deed o' gift—for the farm—to include this—an' it's very right you should have it, too." Old Caleb shook from head to foot and coughed terribly.

"Oh, father, let me send for the doctor," pleaded Saryann, and Dick added feebly, "Yes, father, let me go for the doctor."

"No, no; never mind. It don't matter. I'll be better off soon. Have you the deed o' gift here?"

"Oh, yes, Dick has it in his chest." Dick ran to get the deed, for these were the days before registration in Canada; possession of the deed was possession of the farm, and to lose the deed was to lose the land.

The old man tremblingly fumbled over the money, seeming to count it—"Yes—just—fif-teen hun'erd," as Dick came clumping down the ladder with the deed.

"Have you got a—pen—and ink—"

Dick went for the dried-up ink bottle while Saryann hunted for the pen. Caleb's hand trembled violently as he took the parchment, glanced carefully over it—yes, this was it—the thing that had made him a despised pauper. He glanced around quickly. Dick and Saryann were at the other end of the room. He rose, took one step forward and stuffed the deed into the blazing fire. Holding his revolver in his right hand and the poker in the left, he stood erect and firm, all sign of weakness gone; his eyes were ablaze, and with voice of stern command he hissed "Stand back!" And pointed the pistol as he saw Dick rushing to rescue the deed. In a few seconds it was wholly consumed, and with that, as all knew, the last claim of the Pogues on the property, for Caleb's own possessory was safe in a vault at Downey's.

"Now," thundered Caleb, "you dirty paupers, get out of my house! Get off my land, and don't you dare touch a thing belonging to me."

He raised his voice in a long "halloo" and rapped three times on the table. Steps were heard outside. Then in came Raften with two men.

"Magistrate Raften, clear my house of them interlopers, if ye please."

Caleb gave them a few minutes to gather up their own clothes, then they set out on foot for Downey's, wild with helpless rage, penniless wanderers in the world, as they had meant to leave old Caleb.

Now he was in possession of his own again, once more comfortably "fixed." After the men had had their rough congratulations and uproarious laughter over the success of the trick, Raften led up to the question of money, then left a blank, wondering what Caleb would do. The good old soul pulled out the wad.

"There it is, Bill. I hain't even counted it, and a thousand times obliged. If ever you need a friend, call on me."

Raften chuckled, counted the greenbacks and said "All right!" and to this day Caleb doesn't know that the fortune he held in his hand that day was nothing but a lot of worthless paper.

A week later, as the old Trapper sat alone getting his evening meal, there was a light rap at the door.

"Come in."

A woman entered. Turk had sprung up growling, but now wagged his tail, and when she lifted a veil Caleb recognized Saryann.

"What do you want?" he demanded savagely.

"'Twasn't my doing, father; you know it wasn't; and now he's left me for good." She told him her sorrowful story briefly. Dick had not courted Saryann, but the farm, and now that that was gone he had no further use for her. He had been leading a bad life, "far worse than any one knew," and now he had plainly told her he was done with her.

Caleb's hot anger never lasted more than five minutes. He must have felt that her story was true, for the order of former days was reestablished, and with Saryann for housekeeper the old man had a comfortable home to the end of his days.