The afternoon wore on. The sunlight deepened to orange and burned to red. The mountains were all garbed in purple. The sky above that splendid summit-line of the Great Smoky caught the reflection from the west and was delicately roseate. Cow-bells were clanking in Hazel Valley, faintly, faintly. A star, most serene, was at the zenith. The sheep in the dark niche of the crags stirred, and huddled together again, and were quiet. The moon came and looked coyly in, as if she sought Endymion. The face of the mountaineer, its reckless spirit all spent, was gentle and young in the soft, shy light. All at once he was awake. The sheep were crowding timorously about him. A voice broke with sudden discord into the harmonies of the night. “Nuthin’ but sheep, I reckon.” There was a great scuffling among the rocks and bushes, and Mink ventured to lift his head. He saw the mist-filled valley below; the glister of the moon in the skies above; the infinite expanse of mountain forms all along the background; and in the stony road on the verge of the precipice an equestrian group standing motionless in shadow and sheen. He recognized the sheriff of the county among them, and the constable from Piomingo Cove was in the act of clambering up the rocks. V. The officer laid his hand on the jagged lower ledge of the niche. His hat and its shadow, like some double-headed monster, slowly appeared above the verge as he climbed the crag. The sheep shrank back precipitately into the cavernous place, their hoofs crowding over the young mountaineer. He lay at full length in motionless suspense. There was a moment’s pause. A cloud crossed the moon. Its shadow fell in Hazel Valley. A gust of wind stole along the mountain slopes, sighing as it went, as if its errand were of sorrow. Then, silence. The brilliant lustre burst forth again, suffusing the heights above and the depths so far below. In the midst of the craggy steeps the huddled sheep looked mildly down, with bright, apprehensive eyes, at the constable. “Nuthin’ but sheep,” he said, scanning the interior of the niche. It seemed to Mink, hidden by his fleecy comrades, that the stone walls of his refuge resounded with the loud throbbing of his heart, which must betray him. “D’ ye reckon,” said the sheriff below, “ez that woman could hev made a mistake ’bout hevin’ seen him on this road?” “Mrs. Beale knows Mink Lorey ez well ez I do,” declared the constable. “Mought hev been foolin’ us some,” suggested the sheriff, suspiciously. “She hain’t got no call,” the constable reasoned. As he partly stood on a sharp projection, and partly hung by one arm to the ledges of the niche, he took a plug of tobacco from his pocket and perilously gnawed at it. “Waal, I reckon he ain’t round hyar-abouts,” said the sheriff, with an intonation of disappointment “We hed better push on.”