Attracted by some subtle force beyond his power to check, he turned toward the river and looked steadily at the still overhanging shrubbery. Just below him, where the current turns, the quiet waters were lapping about a ledge of rock. Between that ledge and himself a tangle of bushes clutched the steep bank. He looked straight into the tangle, just plain twig and brown leaf, giving place as he stared, for two still black human eyes looking balefully at him as a snake at its prey. Lloyd Fenneben could not withdraw his gaze. The two eyes--no other human token visible--just two cruel human eyes full of human hate were fixed on him. And the fascination of the thing was paralyzing, horrible. He could not move nor utter a sound. Bug Buler woke with a little cry. The bushes by the riverside just rippled--one quiver of motion--and the eyes were not there. Then Fenneben knew that his heart, which had been still for an age, had begun to beat again. Bug stared up into his face, dazed from sleep. “Where's my Vic? Who's dot me?” he cried. “We came to hunt the bunny. He's gone away again. Shall we go back home?” The gentle voice and strong hand soothed the little one. “It's dettin' told. Let's wun home.” Bug cuddled against Fenneben's side and hugged his hand. “I love you lots,” he said, looking up with eyes of innocent trust. “Yes, let's run home. There is a storm in the air and the sun is hidden from the valley.” He stooped and kissed the little upturned face. “Thank heaven for children!” he murmured. “Amid skulking, drunken men and strange, lonely women, and cruel eyes of unknown beings, they lead us loving-wise back home again.” Behind the vine-covered gate a gray-haired, fair-faced woman watched the two as they disappeared down the road. And the blood-red sun out on the west prairie sank swiftly into a blue cloudbank, presaging the coming of a storm. CHAPTER IV. THE KICKAPOO CORRAL _And even now, as the night comes, and the shadows gather round, And you tell the old-time story, I can almost hear the sound Of the horses' hoofs in the silence, and the voices of struggling men; For the night is the same forever, and the time comes back again_. --JAMES W. STEELE