"Pig-wigs put it thar, I tell ye," reiterated Rufe. "Ye see, I hed got outside o' the gate, an' Pig-wigs war a good ways behind, walkin' toler'ble slow, bein' ez he hed ter kerry the grant in one hand an' the deedie in t'other. An' thar I see a-cropin' along on the ground a young rabbit--reg'lar baby rabbit. An' I motioned ter Pig-wigs ter come quick--I hed fund suthin'. An' ez Pig-wigs couldn't put the deedie down, he laid the grant on top o' the boards ez kivered the pit. But the wind war brief, an' kem mighty nigh blowin' that grant away. So Pig-wigs jes' stuck it down 'twixt two planks, an' kem ter holp me ketch the rabbit. But Pig-wigs warn't no 'count ter holp. An' the rabbit got away. An' whilst Pig-wigs war foolin' round, he drapped his deedie, an' stepped on it--tromped the life out'n it." Rufe's expression was of funereal gravity. "An' then he follered me every foot o' the way home, beggin' an' beggin' me ter gin him another. But I wouldn't. I won't gin no more o' my deedies ter be tromped on, all round the mounting." Rufe evidently felt that the line must be drawn somewhere. "An' what hev gone with that thar grant? 'T war hyar yestiddy." "I dunno," responded Rufe, carelessly. "Mebbe Pig-wigs reminded hisself 'bout'n it arter awhile, an' kem an' got it." This proved to be the case. For Andy Byers concerned himself enough in the matter to ride the old mule over to Nate's home, to push the inquiries. Nate was just emerging from the door. The claybank mare, saddled and bridled, stood in front of the cabin. He was evidently about to mount. "Look-a-hyar, ye scamp!" Byers saluted him gruffly, "whyn't ye let we-uns know ez ye hed got back that thar grant o' yourn, ez hev sot the whole mounting catawampus? Pig-wigs hearn ye talkin' 'bout it at las', and tole ye ez he hed it, I s'pose?" Nate affected to examine the saddle-girth. He looked furtively over the mare's shoulder at Andy Byers. He could not guess how much of the facts had been developed. In sheer perversity he was tempted to deny that he had the grant. But Byers was a heavy man of scant patience, and he wore a surly air that boded ill to a trifler. Nate nodded admission. "Pig-wigs fotched it home, eh?" demanded Byers, leaning downward. Once more Nate lifted his long, thin questioning face. His craft had no encouragement. "Ef ye be minded to call him 'Pig-wigs'--his right name air Benjymen--'t war him ez fotched it home." "Now ye air a mighty cantankerous, quar'lsome, aggervatin' critter!" Byers broke out irritably. "Ain't ye 'shamed o' this hyar hurrah ye hev kicked up fur nuthin'? accusin' o' Birt wrongful, an' sech?" "Naw; I ain't 'shamed o' nuthin'!" said Nate hardily, springing into the saddle. "I'm a-ridin' ter the SettleMINT ter git word from the assayer 'bout'n the gold ez I hev fund. An' when I rides back I'll be wuth more'n enny man in the mountings or Sparty either!"