A moment he looked blankly at the oncoming bear and muttered "Gosh!" between his set teeth. There was not a patch in his pocket. He had put some pieces of patching there in the darkness of the morning before leaving home, without remembering that his pocket was bottomless. He stood between a wounded bear and her cubs, and there was no time for deliberation. He might evade the attack if he could succeed in getting up the cliff where he had come down, but in that case she would reach her hole and he would lose the battle. He promptly tore a piece from the ragged leg of his trousers, and, wrapping his ball in it, rammed it home. Then he took a cap from a hole in the stock of his gun and got it fixed just in time to shoot when the bear was within a dozen feet of him. Uncultivated man that he was, he had the same refined pleasure in the death-throes of his victim that gentlemen and ladies of the highest breeding find in seeing a frightened and exhausted fox torn to pieces by hounds with bloody lips.

Bob's first care was to look after Seizer, who was badly wounded but whose bones were whole. The afternoon had passed its middle when he shot the bear, and by the time he had cared for the dog and dressed the animal the sun was low on the horizon, and McCord was troubled lest he should have delayed too long the execution of his stratagem for the confusion of Jake Hogan.

Another man might have been considerably embarrassed to dispose of the bear. But Bob proceeded to skin it and then to divest it of every part that was of little value. Then he hoisted the carcass to his shoulder and tossed the bear-skin on top. Taking up his rifle, and balancing his burden carefully before starting, he went swaying to and fro down the ravine, choosing with care the securest places among the rocks to set his feet in. It was thus that Samson went off with the great gates of Gaza. McCord was a primitive, Pelasgic sort of man, accustomed to overmatch the ferocities of Nature with a superior strength and cunning. Lacking the refinement and complexity of the typical modern, this antique human is more simple and statuesque; even the craft of such a man has little involution. There was a joy in his bloody victory over the most formidable beast in his reach that was virile and unalloyed by ruth or scruple a joy like that which vibrates in the verses of Homer.

It was a good mile to Lazar Brown's, where Bob hoped to find a horse to take his bear home. When at length he stopped to lay his burden on a salient corner of old Lazar's rail

fence, twilight had begun to bless the overheated earth.

"Got a b'ar, did n' choo, Bob?" said Old Lazar, who was lying in wait for Bob. "To be shore, Uncle Lazar. Whadje expeck?"

"Come in, Bob, wonch yeh? I got a fresh jug full uv the critter yisterday, un I 'low you 're purty consid'able dry agin this time. You purty much al'ays air dry, Bob."

"Well, Uncle Lazar, I am tol❜able dry un no mistake. I hain't had nuthin' to drink to-day 'ceppin' jes branch water, un water 's a mighty weak kind uv a drink fer a pore stomick like mine. 'N' I 'm hungry too. Don' choo 'low S'manthy could rake up a cole dodger some'ers about?"

"Oh, stay tell she gits you some supper."

"No, Uncle Lazar; I could n' stop a minute noways. They hain't got nary thing t'eat 't our house. Len' me your mare to git this 'ere varmint home?"

"I could n', Bob. I'm thes uz willin' to 'commodate ez anybody kin be, but I've promised the mare to one uv the boys to-nightto- to go a-sparkin' weth."

"Oh, sparkin' kin wait. What 's a feller want to go sparkin' a Friday night fer? Tell him to wait tell Sunday, so 's the gal 'll have a clean dress on."

"But I 've gi'n my word, Bob."

"Your word hain't no 'count, un you don't fool me, Uncle Lazar," said Bob, with a broad grin. "Your mare 's a-goin' to town to-night, un ef she sh'd git a bullet-hole into her who 'd pay the funeral ixpenses?"

This consideration went for a good deal with Lazar.

"I say, Bob," he said, coming closer and speaking low, "is they goin' to be shootin' tonight?"

"Uv course they is, un plenty uv it. Don' choo know 't the sheriff 's gi'n bonds, un 'f 'e lets a prisoner go he 's got to pay the damages? Un them town fellers is sot agin lynchin'." Seeing S'manthy in the cabin door straining her attention to the utmost, Bob spoke loud enough to reach her ears. "Lookey h-yer, Uncle Lazar," he went on; "d' you reckon 't that feller that 's a-goin' to git your mare shot to-night 'll gin you a whole quarter uv bearmeat fer the use an' the damages ef she 's shot?"

This last hint had the desired effect.

"T ain't no use a-talkin', Daddy," S'manthy called out; "I hain't a-go'n' to let a' ole frien' like Bob McCord pack that-ar great big b'ar all the way over to Timber Crick on his shoulders ez long 's my name 's S'manthy. Un I hain't a-go'n' to have the mar' shot. So thar 's 'n eend auv it." S'manthy's common “uv"

or "uh" for "of" became "auv" when she wished to be particularly emphatic and fullmouthed in a declaration.

"Good fer you, S'manthy," said Bob. "You sh'll have the best leg this critter 's got. Take yer ch'ice.”

A rusty ax was brought out, and Bob stopped a moment to examine its serrated edge. "I say, Uncle Lazar, ez this a' ax ur a saw? From the aidge uv it, I sh'd call it a saw." Then with a laugh he proceeded to cut off a liberal quarter of the bear, while S'manthy's ten-year-old tow-headed boy was sent to "ketch up the mar'," which was nibbling grass on the farther side of a patch of broad-leaved cottonweeds. When the quarter of bear-meat had been hung up at the north end of the cabin, Lazar got out his jug and Bob began to satisfy the longings of his colossal thirst, while S'manthy set out on the pine table which stood in the middle of the floor some "Kaintucky corn-dodger," as she called it; and despite Bob's protest against staying till she could cook some supper, she put a bit of fat salt pork in the skillet to fry. Meantime the old man plied Bob with more whisky, both before and after eating. When he thought it time for this to have taken effect, he began to try to satisfy his own curiosity.

"D' joo hyer about the carner's eenquest, Bob?" he said cautiously, feeling his way towards his point.

"No, I did n't. You see I hain't seed nobody but the bear, un he wuz the ign'rantest critter. Could n't tell me nuthin'." And Bob laughed at his own wit, as was his custom. "How 'd it go?" Bob had wanted to ask this question, but he wished to let Uncle Lazar begin.

"Well, I hyern f'om Raphe Jackson, thes now, that the jury said 's Lockwood come to 'is final eend ut the han's uv Tom Grayson, ur sumpin like that; un they said 't wuz reg'lar bloody murder in the fust degree. My! ef that was n't a mad crowd! They made a rush fer Grayson, but the depitty shurriff 'd got 'im away. Ef they'd 'a' cotcht him they

would n't 'a' made two bites uv him."

"You don't say!" Bob was a little stunned. He had not thought of Tom's being at the inquest. He felt that perhaps in coming away he had made a mistake that had come near to being a fatal one.

"They wuz thes a-howlin', Raphe said, un they had n't lef' the place when he come away. They wuz made madder by the way the young scoundrel stood up un declared 't he did n' know nuthin' about the murder, arter 't wuz proved on him, plain 's the nose on a man's face, an' the dead man a-layin' right thar afore 'is eyes."

Bob was in a brown study, and nothing was said on either side for nearly a minute. It made Bob uncomfortable to reflect that he had come near losing the game at the outset. "I'low 't 'll go hard weth the young feller to-night."

This roused McCord from the reverie produced from his surprise.

"I reckoned the boys 'u'd be a-goin' to Moscow to-night," he said; and added, "Let 'em go!" And then he laughed as though he knew something.

"Say, Bob," said Uncle Lazar, whose curiosity was piqued beyond endurance, "what's in the wind? What wuz it fotcht you all the way over h-yer un the eenquest a-goin' on so closte to your house?"

"Had n' got no meat," said Bob, with a wink.

"They 's sumpin more 'n that. You've got sumpin ur nuther on Jake, I'll bet."

"I 'ke speck you know a whole lot, Uncle Lazar," said Bob. "I sh'd think you'd jest right up un guess now."

66

Well, I can't."

"Well, I 'm not a-goin' to let 't out, Uncle Lazar, 'thout this 'ere whisky uh yourn 's a leetle too powerful fer me."

Bob did not fear the whisky: it was rare that whisky could get the better of such a frame as his; and, moreover, he was inured to it. He only threw out this hint to persuade his host to be more liberal in dispensing it.

But it appeared that Lazar's liberality with his whisky was probably exhausted; and Bob rose to go, affecting to be unsteady on his legs.

"Set down, Bob; set down, while I see about the mar'."

"Well, I 'low I will, Uncle Lazar. That air whisky uh yourn has settled into my feet a leetle."

Lazar went out to see if the boy had brought the horse, making a signal to his daughter to try her skill at coaxing Bob to tell. Meantime Bob ogled S'manthy, who, like Delilah, was debating how she could win this Samson's secret. Presently he said, in a halftipsy tone:

"S'manthy, you 'n' me wuz al'ays good frien's, wuz n't we?"

"To be shore, Bob."

"I used to think you wuz some at a hoedown; you wuz the best lookin' un the liveliest dancer uv all. How you did kick the floor!"

S'manthy smiled in her faded away. "Bob, that 's all saf'-sodder, un you know it. Say, Bob, ef you're sech a frien' why on yerth don' choo tell a-body what fotcht you over h-yer to-day?"

away through the cornfield towards a little grocery, which was located where the big road crossed Broad Run Hollow, and which was the common center of resort and intelligence for the neighborhood.

XIV.

IN PRISON.

HIRAM MASON managed with difficulty to drive the first two miles of forest road-over roots and stumps, through ruts and mud-holes, and with no light but that of a waning moon. When he reached Timber Creek bridge he got down and led the horse on its unsteady floor. Then came, like a dark spot in the moonlight, the log school-house, which reminded him that he was running away from his day's work. He stopped at the new log-house of John Buchanan, a Scotch farmer who had been one of his predecessors, and called him up to beg him to take his place. Buchanan, whose knowledge was of the rudimentary kind, had ceased to teach because the increased demands of the patrons of the school had left him behind; it was a sort of consolation to his thwarted ambition to resume the beech-scepter if only for a day.

When Buchanan's house had been left behind, the road passed into an outskirt of small poplars and then finally shook off the woods and lay straight away over the dead level of the great prairie. By the time the wagon reached this point the dawn was beginning to reveal the landscape, though as yet the world consisted only of masses of shadow interspersed with patches of a somber gray. But the smooth road was sufficiently discernible for Hiram to put the horse into a trot, which afforded no little relief to the impatient Barbara. Up to this time they had traveled in silence, except for the groans and sighs of Mrs. Grayson. But at length Barbara took the lead.

"I can't believe that Tom did that shooting," she said to Mason. "He promised me after supper last night that he would put all hard feelings against George Lockwood out of his mind. Tom is n't the kind of a fellow to play the hypocrite. Oh, I do hope he is innocent!"

"So do I," said Mason.

"To be sure, he is," said Mrs. Grayson, with a touch of protest in her voice.

Barbara had detected a note of effort in Hiram's reply, that indicated a prevailing doubt of Tom's innocence, and she did not speak again during the whole ride. When they entered the village, Mason drove first to the sheriff's house, and went in, leaving Barbara and her mother in the wagon. Sheriff VOL. XXXV.-93.

Plunkett had not yet had his breakfast. He was a well-built man, of obliging manners, but with a look of superfluous discreetness in his face. Mason explained in few words that the mother and sister of Tom Grayson, who had not seen him since the shooting of Lockwood, were at the door in a wagon and wished to be admitted to the jail. The sheriff regarded Mason awhile in silence; it was his habit to examine the possible results of the simplest action before embarking in it. He presently went up-stairs and came down bringing with him the jail keys. Mason drove the wagon to the jail, tied the horse to a tree, and suggested to Mrs. Grayson and Barbara that it would be better for him to go in first. He had a vague fear that there might be something in Tom's situation to shock the feelings of his mother and sister. The sheriff had walked briskly along the wagon track in the middle of the street to avoid the dew-laden grass on either side of the road. When he came to the door of the jail he said in an undertone as he shoved the great iron key into the door : "Tom 's in the dungeon."

"Why did you put him in the dungeon? asked Mason.

"We always put prisoners accused of murder in there."

"You might put an innocent man in that place," said Mason.

"Well, there ain't much doubt about Tom's being guilty; and anyways the jail 's so weak that we have to put anybody accused of murder in the dungeon, where there ain't any outside windows."

By the time he had finished this speech, Plunkett had admitted Mason and himself to the jail and locked the outside door behind them. The prison was divided into two apartments by a hall-way through the middle. The room to the left, as one entered, was called the dungeon: it was without any light except the little that came through at second-hand from the dusky hall by means of a small grating in the door; the hall itself had a simple grated window at the end farthest from the outside door.

When the sheriff had with difficulty opened the door of the dungeon, he could not see anything inside.

"Tom, come out," he called.

Mason was barely acquainted with Tom, but he was shocked to see the fine-looking fellow in handcuffs as he came to the door, blinking his eyes at the light, and showing a face which wounded pride and anxiety had already begun to make haggard.

"Mr. Mason, I did n't expect to see you," said Tom. "Did you hear anything from mother and Barbara ?”