r with her eyes lifted,
fascinated, and so out the door where she paused an instant to flash
back a wistful appeal. Nothing but silence, and then her feet pattering
off into the outer room.

"Maybe you better go keep her company, Bart," said the father, and at
this sign of relenting Vic felt his tensed muscles relaxing; the wolf
whined softly and glided through the door.

"You feeling better?"

"Like a hoss off green feed. I been lyin' here drinkin' up the
sunshine."

The other stood beside the open window and there he canted his head, his
glance far off and intent.

"D'you hear?" he asked, turning sharply.

There was a fierce eagerness in his face.

"Hear what?"

"It's spring," he murmured, without answering more directly than this,
and Vic felt that the other had changed again, grown understandable.
Nevertheless, the shock of that sudden alteration at the window kept
him watching his host with breathless interest. Whatever it was that the
strange fellow heard, a light had gleamed in his eyes for a moment. As
he sauntered back towards the bed just a trace of it lingered about him,
a hint of sternness.

"Spring?" answered Gregg. "Yep, I smelled spring a few days back and I
started out to find some action. You can see for yourself that I found
it, partner." He stirred, uneasily, but it was necessary that the story
should be told lest it reach the ears of this man from another source.
It was one thing to shelter a fugitive from justice whose crime was
unknown, perhaps trifling, but it might be quite another story if this
gentle, singular man learned that his guest was a new-made murderer.
Better that he should learn the tale now and form his prejudices in
favor of Gregg. "I'll tell you the whole story," he began.

But the other shrugged his shoulders.

"You leave the story be," he said, and there was something in the quiet
firmness of his manner which made it impossible for Vic to continue.
"You're here and you're hurt and you need a pile of rest. That's about
enough story for me."

Vic put himself swiftly in the place of the other. Suppose that he and
Betty Neal should have a cabin off in the mountains like this, how would
they receive a wounded fugitive from justice? As unquestioningly as
this? In a surge of gratitude he looked mistily towards his host.

"Stranger," he said, "you're white. Damned white. That's all. My name's
Vic Gregg and I come from--"

"Thanks," cut in the other. "I'm glad to know y