he deep wood.

"Everybody back! False alarm! Nothin' but the gal gittin' skeered," he
shouted. "I'm fetchin' her in, an' th' feller what skeered her."

Explosive laughter from the men and much crude banter marked our relief.
Mrs. Moulton dropped her ax and with both hands held to her face stumbled
into the clearing. The Widow McCabe walked with her head bowed, the ax
held limply. Although rejoicing over the child's safety, I suspected she
regretted not having had a chance to use her ax.

"Here they come! Two babies!" some one shouted.

Mrs. Moulton turned and ran toward the woods again, much as a
hen-partridge scurries to its young.

The bush-growth swayed and parted. First came the frightened child, and
she redoubled her weeping on finding herself in her mother's arms. Behind
the child came a grinning woodsman and back of him rode a tall man of very
powerful build, but with a face so fat as to appear round and wearing an
expression of stupidity.

It was my first glimpse of him, but I recognized him instantly from the
many descriptions border men had given of him. He was known as "Baby"
Kirst, and he was a Nemesis the Indians had raised against themselves, a
piece of terrible machinery which their superstitions would not permit
them to kill.

His intelligence was that of a child of seven. When about that age his
people were massacred on the Greenbriar and he had been left for dead with
a portion of his scalp ripped off and a ghastly wound in his head. By some
miracle he had survived, but with his mental growth checked. Physically he
had developed muscle and bone until he was a giant in strength.

The red men believed him to be under the protection of the Great Spirit,
and when they heard him wandering through the woods, sometimes weeping
like a peevish child because some little plan had gone awry, more often
laughing uproariously at that which would tickle the fancy of a
seven-year-old, they made mad haste to get out of his path.

His instinct to kill was aroused against Indians only. Perhaps it was
induced by a vague memory of dark-skinned men having hurt him at some
time. Nor was he always possessed by this ungovernable rage. Sometimes he
would spend a day in an Indian camp, but woe to the warrior who even
inadvertently crossed his whims.

He was not skilled in woodcraft beyond the cunning necessary for
surprising easy game such as turkeys, squirrels and rabbits. Regardless of
his enormous appetite food was