ried to comfort him.

"Now, don't you, son--don't you. Dad ain't going to let anything hurt
you-all."

Presently he touched the flank of his roan with a spur and the animal
began to pick its way down the steep trail among the loose rubble. Not
for an instant did the rider relax his vigilance as he descended. At
the ford he examined the ground carefully to make sure that nobody had
crossed since the shower of the afternoon. Swinging to the saddle
again, he put his horse to the water and splashed through to the
opposite shore. Once more he dismounted and studied the approach to
the creek. No tracks had written their story on the sand in the past
few hours. Yet with every sense alert he led the way to the cottonwood
grove where he intended to camp. Not till he had made a tour of the
big rocks and a clump of prickly pears adjoining was his mind easy.

He came back to find the boy crying. "What's the matter, big son?" he
called cheerily. "Nothing a-tall to be afraid of. This nice
camping-ground fits us like a coat of paint. You-all take forty winks
while dad fixes up some supper."

He spread his slicker and rolled his coat for a pillow, fitting it
snugly to the child's head. While he lit a fire he beguiled the time
with animated talk. One might have guessed that he was trying to make
the little fellow forget the alarm that had been stirred in his mind.

"Sing the li'l' ole hawss," commanded the boy, reducing his sobs.

Beaudry followed orders in a tuneless voice that hopped gayly up and
down. He had invented words and music years ago as a lullaby and the
song was in frequent demand.

"Li'l' ole hawss an' li'l' ole cow,
Amblin' along by the ole haymow,
Li'l' ole hawss took a bite an' a chew,
'Durned if I don't,' says the ole cow, too."

Seventeen stanzas detailed the adventures of this amazing horse and
predatory cow. Somewhere near the middle of the epic little Royal
Beaudry usually dropped asleep. The rhythmic tale always comforted
him. These nameless animals were very real friends of his. They had
been companions of his tenderest years. He loved them with a devotion
from which no fairy tale could wean him.

Before he had quite surrendered to the lullaby, his father aroused him
to share the bacon and the flapjacks he had cooked.

"Come and get it, big son," Beaudry called with an imitation of manly
roughness.

The boy ate drowsily before the fire, nodding between bites.

Presently