res fascinated yet horrified them.

Jamie scrambled to one knee and Vada hugged one of the little man's
arms.

"We'll have to have dinner, kiddies," he said, with attempted
lightness.

"Ess," said Jamie absently. Then he reached up to the wound on his
father's right cheek, and touched it gently with one small finger. It
was so sore that the man flinched, and the child's hand was withdrawn
instantly.

"Oose's hurted," he exclaimed.

"Pore poppa's all hurt up," added Vada tearfully.

"Not hurt proper," said Scipio, with a wan smile. "Y'see, it was jest
a game, an'--an' the boys were rough. Now we'll git dinner."

But Vada's mind was running on with swift childish curiosity, and she
put a sudden question.

"When's momma comin' back?" she demanded.

The man's eyes shifted to the open doorway. The golden sunlight beyond
was shining with all the splendor of a summer noon. But for all his
blackened eyes saw there might have been a gray fog of winter
outside.

"Momma?" he echoed blankly.

"Ess, momma," cried Jamie. "When she comin'?"

Scipio shook his head and sighed.

"When she comin'?" insisted Vada.

The man lowered his eyes till they focused themselves upon the yellow
pup, now hungrily licking up the cold milk.

"She won't come back," he said at last, in a low voice. Then with a
despairing gesture, he added: "Never! never!" And his head dropped
upon Jamie's little shoulder while he hugged Vada more closely to his
side as though he feared to lose her too.

CHAPTER X

THE TRUST

It was a blazing afternoon of the "stewing" type. The flies in the
store kept up a sickening hum, and tortured suffering humanity--in the
form of the solitary Minky--with their persistent efforts to alight on
his perspiring face and bare arms. The storekeeper, with excellent
forethought, had showered sticky papers, spread with molasses and
mucilage, broadcast about the shelves, to ensnare the unwary pests.
But though hundreds were lured to their death by sirupy drowning, the
attacking host remained undiminished, and the death-traps only
succeeded in adding disgusting odors to the already laden atmosphere.
Fortunately, noses on Suffering Creek were not over-sensitive, and the
fly, with all his native unpleasantness, was a small matter in the
scheme of the frontiersman's life, and, like all other obstructions,
was brushed aside physically as well as mentally.

The afternoon quiet had set in. The noon rush had passed, n