*

The summer sun bathed the hillside and warmed the Skinner shanty.
Tessibel's hedge lifted its green head upward as if to catch the golden
rays. The flower beds rimmed the hut like a bewildering, gorgeous
rainbow. Everything belonging to Tess seemed at absolute peace with
itself and the world.

Orn Skinner, his head sunken between the two humps on his shoulders, was
lazily whittling a stick when the sound of a horse's hoofs in the lane
near Young's barn arrested his attention. It was the one sound the
squatter expected that day, yet dreaded. Furtively, he leaned back near
the partly open door.

"Some 'un's coming, Tess," he warned.

Evidently, the fisherman did not expect an answer, for he straightened
up once more and proceeded to whittle. The pitter-patter of the trotting
horse, and the clatter of the wheels upon the flinty road, broke rudely
upon the familiar little noises of the quiet summer morning. One
sidewise glance satisfied Orn that the men in the vehicle were from
Auburn prison. He stopped whittling but a moment when Burnett drew up.

"Hello, Orn," called the officer, stentorian-voiced.

"Hello," and the squatter made a polite salute with his stick.

Burnett tossed the reins to the man at his side and climbed to the
ground, advancing toward the fisherman.

"This your hut, Skinner?" he interrogated.

Orn Skinner's tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. He endeavored to
speak, but apprehension and dread had apparently paralyzed his vocal
organs. He hadn't fully realized until that moment how desperate the
venture to which he had committed himself and Tess. Between Andy Bishop
and this formidable giant from Auburn was but the brave little daughter
inside the hut. Would she be able to carry through the hazardous task
she'd undertaken?

"You remember me, don't you, Skinner?"

It took several seconds before the fisherman could clear his throat
enough to speak.

"Yep," he succeeded at length in muttering. "I remember ye all right....
Ye air Burnett from Auburn, ain't ye?... What do ye want around here?"

Suddenly there came to the powerful officer a wild desire to throttle
the heavy-headed squatter. He had a feeling that this man knew more than
he could be forced to tell, perhaps.

"Better hold a civil tongue in your head, old fellow," he threatened,
"if you know what's best for you."

Orn lifted one great shoulder.

"Ye ain't got nothin' on me, Burnett," he snarled defiantly, "but I know
y