onless against the gray bole of the elm tree. But she was looking
through a tangle of purple oak leaves and twining bitter-sweet branches,
and Fenneben was unconscious of being discovered.

"A woman never could whistle," he smiled, as he listened, "but that call
seems to do for the dog, all right."

The Great Dane was tearing across lots in answer to the trill of a
woman's voice.

"She is safe now. But what does it all mean? Is there a wayside tragedy
here that calls for my unraveling?"

Attracted by some subtle force beyond his power to check, he turned
toward the river and looked steadily at the still overhanging shrubbery.
Just below him, where the current turns, the quiet waters were lapping
about a ledge of rock. Between that ledge and himself a tangle of bushes
clutched the steep bank. He looked straight into the tangle, just plain
twig and brown leaf, giving place as he stared, for two still black
human eyes looking balefully at him as a snake at its prey. Lloyd
Fenneben could not withdraw his gaze. The two eyes--no other human token
visible--just two cruel human eyes full of human hate were fixed on him.
And the fascination of the thing was paralyzing, horrible. He could not
move nor utter a sound. Bug Buler woke with a little cry. The bushes by
the riverside just rippled--one quiver of motion--and the eyes were not
there. Then Fenneben knew that his heart, which had been still for an
age, had begun to beat again. Bug stared up into his face, dazed from
sleep.

"Where's my Vic? Who's dot me?" he cried.

"We came to hunt the bunny. He's gone away again. Shall we go back
home?" The gentle voice and strong hand soothed the little one.

"It's dettin' told. Let's wun home." Bug cuddled against Fenneben's side
and hugged his hand. "I love you lots," he said, looking up with eyes of
innocent trust.

"Yes, let's run home. There is a storm in the air and the sun is hidden
from the valley." He stooped and kissed the little upturned face. "Thank
heaven for children!" he murmured. "Amid skulking, drunken men and
strange, lonely women, and cruel eyes of unknown beings, they lead us
loving-wise back home again."

Behind the vine-covered gate a gray-haired, fair-faced woman watched the
two as they disappeared down the road.

And the blood-red sun out on the west prairie sank swiftly into a blue
cloudbank, presaging the coming of a storm.

CHAPTER IV. THE KICKAPOO CORRAL

_And even now, as the night comes, a