“_There is!_” whispered Jim Williamson, with all his might. Both occupants started, and the wounded man’s eyes glared like a wolf’s. “Don’t be frightened,” whispered Jim; “I’m yours, body and soul—the devil himself would be, if he’d been standin’ at this hole the last five minutes. I’m Jim Williamson. Let me help you miss—sheriff.” The sheriff blew out the light, opened the door, called softly to Jim, led him into the hut, closed the door, relighted the candle and—blushed. Jim looked at the sheriff out of the top of his eyes, and then blushed himself—then he looked at the wounded man. There was for a moment an awkward silence, which Jim broke by clearing his throat violently, after which he said: “Now, both of you make your minds easy. Nobody’ll never find you here—I’ve hunted through all these woods, but never saw _this_ cabin before. Arm broke?” “No,” said the counterfeiter, “but—but it runs in the family to shoot ugly.” Again the sheriff kissed the man repeatedly. “Then you can move in two or three days,” said Jim, “if you’re taken care of rightly. Nobody’ll suspect anything wrong about the sheriff, ef he don’t turn up again right away. I’ll go back to town, throw everybody off the track, and bring out a few things to make you comfortable.” Jim looked at the sheriff again, blushed again, and started for the door. The wounded man sprang to his feet, and hoarsely whispered: “Swear—ask God to send you to hell if you play false—swear by everything you love and respect and hope for, that you won’t let my daughter be disgraced because she happened to have a rascal for her father!” Jim hesitated for a moment; then he seized the sheriff’s hand. “I ain’t used to swearin’ except on somethin’ I can see,” said he, “an’ the bizness is only done in one way,” with this he kissed the little hand in his own, and dashed out of the cabin with a very red face. Within ten minutes Jim met his brother and Braymer. “No use, boys,” said he, “might as well go back. There ain’t no fears but what the sheriff’ll be smart enough to do ’em yet, if he’s alive, an’ if he’s dead we can’t help _him_ any.” “If he’s dead,” remarked Bill Braymer, “an’ there’s any pay due him, I hope part of it’ll come for these horses. Mine’s dead, an’ Pete’s might as well be.” “Well,” said Jim, “I’ll go on to town. I want to be out early in the mornin’ an’ see ef I can’t get a deer, an’ it’s time I was in bed.” And Jim galloped off. The horse and man which might have been seen threading the woods at early daybreak on the following morning, might have set for a picture of one of Sherman’s bummers. For a month afterward Jim’s mother bemoaned the unaccountable absence of a tin pail, a meal-bag, two or three blankets, her only pair of scissors, and sundry other useful articles, while her sorrow was increased by the fact that she had to replenish her household stores sooner than she had expected.