off with a thoroughbred, and Betty's pony. Colonel Zane was furious,
not on account of the value of the horses, but because Bess was his
favorite bay, and Betty loved nothing more than her pony Madcap. To
have such a march stolen on him after he had heard and seen the
thieves was indeed hard. High time it was that these horse thieves be
run to earth. No Indian had planned these marauding expeditions. An
intelligent white man was at the bottom of the thieving, and he should
pay for his treachery.

The colonel's temper, however, soon cooled. He realized after thinking
over the matter, that he was fortunate it passed off without
bloodshed. Very likely the intent had been to get all his horses,
perhaps his neighbor's as well, and it had been partly frustrated by
Jonathan's keen sagacity. These Shawnees, white leader or not, would
never again run such risks.

"It's like a skulking Shawnee," muttered Colonel Zane, "to slip down
here under cover of early dusk, when no one but an Indian hunter could
detect him. I didn't look for trouble, especially so soon after the
lesson we gave Girty and his damned English and redskins. It's lucky
Jonathan was here. I'll go back to the old plan of stationing scouts
at the outposts until snow flies."

While Colonel Zane talked to himself and paced the path he had
selected to patrol, the white mists cleared, and a rosy hue followed
the brightening in the east. The birds ceased twittering to break into
gay songs, and the cock in the barnyard gave one final clarion-voiced
salute to the dawn. The rose in the east deepened into rich red, and
then the sun peeped over the eastern hilltops to drench the valley
with glad golden light.