I did not anticipate a second attack before I reached home. Each of these cowardly efforts had been planned in advance, and had either succeeded no one could have pointed at Buck Steele as my slayer. I was safe for another day, at least, so, gaining a temporary relief from this fact, I trudged on moodily to the Lodge. Next day at noon, as I turned from the well with a bucket of water in my hand, I saw a belted and booted figure coming toward me from the spot where the road led up. The stranger had an athletic bearing, wore a cheap straw hat much out of shape, and carried a rifle in the hollow of his arm. I advanced to meet him, for I guessed his mission at once. "You're the sheriff of this county?" I asked pleasantly, setting my bucket down, and shaking hands. The man took his hat off and drew his shirt sleeve across his streaming face. The imprint of his hatband showed a red bar across his white forehead. "Nope; deputy. Been huntin' a blacksmith fur the las' four days, 'n' it's worse 'n huntin' four-leaf clover." He chuckled, as though the task was not as onerous as his words implied, and hitched his trousers. "Plenty of room to hide out here," I agreed. "Come over to the house and have a drink. You seem hot." "Well, I reck'n. Bad time o' year fur a manhunt." He walked beside me to a bench, and when he had greedily swallowed three cups of water I asked him to sit down and rest a while. The invitation pleased him, and presently we had launched into an animated conversation. I soon learned that he had been in and about Hebron most of his time; that he had not even caught a glimpse of his quarry, and that someone in the hamlet had suggested that he come to see me. A moment's reflection showed me that I could not make a confidant of the officer, much as I wished to, for an explanation of Buck's animosity would be in order. This I could not give without bringing in the name of a third party, and exposing to a chance acquaintance the cherished secret in my heart. No, Buck and I must settle this affair alone, and in silence. So I told the deputy instead that I was present when the mule was killed, and that it actually was accomplished with a single blow from the fist. Whereupon, he declared that he was glad to have Bart Crawley's statement verified, as most of the citizens of Cedarton had taken it with a grain of salt, but personally he believed it true. Then he became quite chatty, and proceeded to relate some of the exploits of Buck's father, a giant who for girth and stature had surpassed his son. I listened politely to the rambling narrative, taking much comfort in the simple presence of my caller. "Th' ol' man finally went crazy," concluded the deputy; "yellin', whoopin' crazy, 'n' jumped off a bluff in the river one winter night." "Went crazy?" My lips repeated the two words involuntarily, and I turned to the man as though I had not heard aright. The statement formed a portent of dread to my mind.