ain, with a meaning smile of
confidence.

"What are you hunting, sir?" the Colonel asked, after a polite exchange
of greetings.

Dale looked at them and chuckled. It was a sign of comradeship, of
fellowship; the sort of chuckle in which two boys might indulge if,
having entered a jam closet from opposite sides and each unknown to the
other, they suddenly meet face to face.

"I'm huntin' the same sort of game you-all air, I reckon," he remarked,
pushing back his hat. "But it's gone."

"Squirrels?"

The mountaineer regarded them with something pathetic in his eyes, and
when he spoke his voice was tinged with disappointment.

"Last night," he said, "I thought ye war both my friends--'n' I war
a-ready ter be yourn. Why do ye want ter lie ter me?"

A flush of anger spread over their faces, and the Colonel was framing a
scorching retort, when Dale continued:

"No, hit hain't squir'ls; hit's that varmint Tusk Potter. I hain't
afeerd ter tell. His shack's back thar;" jerking his thumb over his
shoulder, "or, I'd ought ter say, what's left of hit's thar. He's gone."

"Did you kill him?" the Colonel asked, looking squarely into his eyes.

"That hain't jest a question one man ought ter be askin' of another
man," he quickly answered. "But as hit turned out, I didn't kill him;
'n' I didn't mean ter. I kind of swore off killin' folks when I war a
kid, 'n' hain't done hit much since. But I did mean ter run him outen
the country, 'n' burn his cabin. If he'd ruther've stayed 'n' got kilt,
that war his business."

By a common impulse the three started back, Dale leading them some half
a mile when they dismounted and threaded their way along an obscure
trail. This led up a deep ravine, through which trickled the South Fork
of Blacksnake Creek, and eventually brought them out at a small
clearing. In the center smouldered the ruins of a cabin, with a few
fitful flames still spurting from the ashes and charred log ends.

"You've done well, Dale," the Colonel observed. "Bob, leave a notice for
him here. He can read, I suppose?"

"He's been going to school for several months," Bob said, tearing off
the back of an envelope and stooping to write.

Dale came close on tiptoe and watched this process over the young man's
shoulder. He stood in an attitude of rapt attention and, as the pencil
made stroke after stroke of the printed letters, his own finger traced
each line in the air, as though he were memorizing their directions and