heard. "'Phone the sheriff. The man's
dangerous, sir. I doctored a cut he had the other day, and he tells me
he can see at night. That's a lie, of course, but he's light on his
feet, and he's a devil. I've seen some rotten curs in the hospitals, but
he's worse."

"Really, Billy, you sound as fierce as Onnie. She wanted a gun."

The handsome young man bit a lip, and his great body shook.

"This is San," he said, "and the men would kill any one who touched you,
and they'd burn any one who touched San. Sorry if I'm rude."

"We mustn't lose our heads." Rawling talked against his fear. "The man's
drunk. He'll never get near here, and he's got four miles to come in a
cold rain. But--"

"May I sleep in San's room?"

"Then he'll know. I don't want him to, or Ling, either; they're
imaginative kids. This is a vile mess, Billy."

"Hush! Then I'll sleep outside his door. I _will_, sir!"

"All right, old man. Thanks. Ling can sleep in Pete's room. Now I'll
'phone Mackintosh."

But the sheriff did not answer, and his deputy was ill. Rawling
shrugged, but when Varian telephoned that there were thirty men
searching, he felt more comfortable.

"You're using the wires a lot, Dad," said Sanford, roaming in. "Anything
wrong? Where's Ling to sleep?"

"In Pete's room. Good-night, Godson. No, nothing wrong."

But Sanford was back presently, his eyes wide.

"I say, Onnie's asleep front of my door and I can't get over her. What's
got into the girl?"

"She's worried. Her snake's bells are going, and she thinks the house'll
burn down. Let her be. Sleep with me, and keep my feet warm, Sonny."

"Sure," yawned Sanford. "'Night, Billy."

"Well," said Bill, "that settles that, sir. She'd hear anything, or I
will, and you're a light sleeper. Suppose we lock up as much as we can
and play some checkers?"

They locked the doors, and toward midnight Cameron rapped at the library
window, his rubber coat glistening.

"Not a print of the wastrel loon, sir; but the lads will bide out the
night. They've whusky an' biscuits an' keep moving."

"I'll come out myself," Rawling began, but the smith grunted.

"Ye're no stirrin' oot yer hoos, Robert Rawling! Ye're daft! Gin you met
this ganglin' assassinator, wha'd be for maister? San's no to lack a
father. Gae to yer bit bed!"

"Gosh!" said Bill, shutting the window, "_he's_ in earnest. He forgot to
try to talk English even. I feel better. The hog's fallen into a hole
and gone to sleep. Le