Once Dean Wolcott had seen a small bedraggled kitten defending itself against a terrier. He had broken its back, apparently, for it could not rise, but it lay there, embattled, fending him off with its tiny, futile claws. Before he could rush downstairs and out into the yard--it was over. It was like that now, he thought, sickened, the way the child beat him off with his one hand ... the way he must close in on him.... “I don’t dare let you wait, Scout; I don’t _dare_--not to do this!” He got him up at last, face downward, over his shoulder, steadying him and holding him with both hands, talking to him, crooning to him, soothing him, walking slowly for fear of falling, walking faster for fear of the galloping moments. Every atom of his will, every cell of his brain, every nerve of his body was mobilized; he felt curiously light and free and strong; he could carry his burden like this for hours if need be. Then the moon came up, just as he had calculated that it must, the waning moon, lopsided and sagging, pouring its clear effulgence down on the somber hills, on the black mountain peaks, spilling it down into the depths of cañons--into his cañon there, and into Ginger’s cañon, miles away on the home trail. “Ah,” he said, joyfully, “now we’re all right, aren’t we, Scout? Now we can make speed! But first I’m going to put you down and have another look, and see if I can’t make you a little more comfortable.” He eased him to the ground with passionate care but the child never ceased his low sobbing. The moon illumined him whitely; it showed the Ranger everything there was to see; it played over Elmer Bunty like a searchlight of radium; it seemed to pierce through and through his broken little body. Dean Wolcott got up from his inspection and walked away a few paces and stood looking blindly down into the silvered ravine. When he came back and sat down beside the boy his voice sounded ragged and uneven. “I think we’ll rest here awhile, Scout,” he said. “We won’t try to go on, just now.” “No,” said the Scout, gasping, grateful, “we won’t--go on--” The Airedale snuggled close to him and lapped his hand and wrist without ceasing. “Rus-ty ...” said the boy with difficulty, and then--“... wisht that Mabel was ...” “What is it, Scout?” Dean bent his head low to listen. “I don’t guess Edna ...”--the words trailed away, feeble, uncertain--“’Fraid-Cat ... all burnt’n everything ... not crying ... _much_....” And then, in spite of what he had said, the Scout left his friend and his dog and went on, alone. * * * * *