along his veins. He who had little to do with the strife of
men, and nothing to do with anger, felt his blood grow hot
at the cowardly trap laid for an innocent girl.

"Old Al won't listen to me," pondered Dale. "An' even if he
did, he wouldn't believe me. Maybe nobody will. . . . All
the same, Snake Anson won't get that girl."

With these last words Dale satisfied himself of his own
position, and his pondering ceased. Taking his rifle, he
descended from the loft and peered out of the door. The
night had grown darker, windier, cooler; broken clouds were
scudding across the sky; only a few stars showed; fine rain
was blowing from the northwest; and the forest seemed full
of a low, dull roar.

"Reckon I'd better hang up here," he said, and turned to the
fire. The coals were red now. From the depths of his
hunting-coat he procured a little bag of salt and some
strips of dried meat. These strips he laid for a moment on
the hot embers, until they began to sizzle and curl; then
with a sharpened stick he removed them and ate like a hungry
hunter grateful for little.

He sat on a block of wood with his palms spread to the dying
warmth of the fire and his eyes fixed upon the changing,
glowing, golden embers. Outside, the wind continued to rise
and the moan of the forest increased to a roar. Dale felt
the comfortable warmth stealing over him, drowsily lulling;
and he heard the storm-wind in the trees, now like a