e bottom of a awful heap of trouble. If I could
make the laws, the hull infarnel stuff would be handled like pison and
pistols, ruther keerful."

"Wycoff is pretty well off, I guess he can be made to pay pretty heavy
damages," said the farmer.

"'Tween you an' me, that ere is poor consolation. Supposen the honey's
neck had been broken, and the chances was agin her, what money du ye
think could pay for her life? I tell ye what, the thing is all wrong,
liquor makin and liquor sellin does mischief that no money can't pay
fur."

CHAPTER XXIII.

AN INDIAN MESSENGER--FROZEN TO DEATH.

The evening hour drew on. Little Wolf lay upon her bed feverish with
pain. Her arm was in bandages, and Dr. Goodrich stood by soothing and
encouraging her. Louise Sherman having arrived, kindly relieved Mrs.
Hawley, who embraced the opportunity to slip out and regale herself
with a cup of tea.

As she approached the kitchen, the sound of Daddy's voice reached her
ear, and the few words that she caught hastened her footsteps
thither.

"It was as much as ever I could du fur to hold Fleet Foot," he was
saying as she opened the door.

"Go on, Daddy," said Mrs. Hawley as he paused at her entrance, "I want
to hear all about it."

"Wall, as I was a tellin Sorrel Top," he continued, "I was pretty nigh
done out a holdin Fleet Foot, when we got tu that are long hill, fur I
was a leetle afeared he might git the better on me, but the Honey
want, she ain't never afeared of nothin nor never was, but she was
oncommon quiet, she hadn't spoke for a long time--when, all at once,
jest as we was agoin up the hill, what should we see but Wycoff's big
team a tearin down like Jehu. He was a swearin and a cussin and there
want no dodging of him. I riz right up and hollered, and the Honey riz
up and hollered and shook her handkerchief, but it want no use. Down,
down it cum like lightning, sled and all. Fleet Foot got skeered with
the hollerin and he jest _went it_. Wall, the Honey ketched up Fanny
in a jiff, and tossed her out, and was out herself afore I knowed it,
and I was jest a goin fur to git out when the teams cum together
kersmash, and I was pitched head fust clean over Wycoff's sled inter
the road, and would no doubt hev been killed but my time hadn't come.
'Tween you and me, it is _foreordinated_ that we won't die till our
time comes. Fur you may pitch a man about, and break him all tu bits
and he lives and gits well. But when his time