ed, pale, with
his hands clenched. He never said a word. Something was born in the
depths of his gentle soul then.

Dick tore a hole in the little wall of rocks that supported the porch,
and with a lighted torch on a stick he wormed his way in to rout out
the skunks.

Panhandle suddenly was thrilled and frightened by a bellowing from
Dick. The boy came hurriedly backing out of the hole. He fetched an
odor with him that nearly suffocated Panhandle, so strange and raw and
terrible was it. Dick's eyes were shut. For the time being he had
been blinded. He bounced around like a chicken with its head cut off,
bawling wildly.

What had happened Panhandle did not know, but it certainly suited him.
"Goody! Goody!" he shouted, holding his nose, and edging away from the
lad.

Then Panhandle saw smoke issuing from the hole under the porch. The
mother skunk and her kittens scampered out into the weeds. He heard
the crackle of flames. That boy had dropped his torch under the porch.
Screaming, Panhandle ran to alarm his mother. But it was too late.
There were no men near at hand, so nothing could be done. Panhandle
stood crying beside his mother, watching their little home burn to the
ground. Somehow in his mind the boy, Dick, had been to blame.
Panhandle peered round to find him, but he was gone. Never would
Panhandle forget that boy.

They walked to the uncle's house and spent the night there. Soon
another home was under construction on the same site. It was more of a
shack than a house, for building materials were scarce, and the near
approach of winter made hasty construction imperative. Winter came
soon, and Panhandle and his mother were alone. It was cold and they
huddled over the little wood fire. They had plenty to eat, but were
very uncomfortable in the one-room shack. Bill Smith came home but
seldom. That fall the valley had been overrun with homesteaders,
"nesters," they were called, and these newcomers passed by often from
the town drunk and rough.

Panhandle used to lie awake a good deal. During these lonely hours the
moan of the prairie wind, the mourn of wolves and yelp of coyotes
became part of his existence. He understood why his mother barred and
blocked the one door, placed the ax by the bed and the gun under her
pillow. Even then he longed for the time when he would be old and big
enough to protect her.

The lonely winter, with its innumerable hours of solitude for Mrs.
Smith and