could not see that she could do otherwise. He sighed for
independence, for a larger opportunity. As he drove the mule round
the limited circuit, his mind was far away. He anxiously canvassed
the future. He cherished fiery, ambitious schemes,--often scorched,
poor fellow, by their futility. With his time thus mortgaged, he
thought his help to his mother was far less than it might be. But
until he could have a horse of his own, there was no hope--no
progress. And for this he planned, and dreamed, and saved.

Partly these considerations, partly the love of adventure, and
partly the jeer in Nate's laugh determined him not to relinquish the
price set upon the fox's head. He took off his coat and flung it on
the ground beside his rifle. Then he began to clamber up the cliff.

The two brothers, their hands in the pockets of their brown jeans
trousers, stood watching his ascent. Nate had sandy hair, small
gray eyes, set much too close together, and a sharp, pale, freckled
face. Tim seemed only a mild repetition of him, as if Nature had
tried to illustrate what Nate would be with a better temper and less
sly intelligence.

Birt was climbing slowly. It was a difficult matter. Here was a
crevice that would hardly admit his eager fingers, and again a
projection so narrow that it seemed to grudge him foothold. Some of
the ledges, however, were wider, and occasionally a dwarfed
huckleberry bush, nourished in a fissure, lifted him up like a
helping hand. He quaked as he heard the roots strain and creak, for
he was a pretty heavy fellow for sixteen years of age. They did not
give way, however, and up and up he went, every moment increasing
the depth below him and the danger. His breath was short; his