Dan could be quiet no longer. "Mr. Heger," he said, "it was about that very Indian that I came up here to talk to you this morning. I saw him in hiding near our cabin. Yesterday afternoon he frightened the children, although he did not come out into the open; then about two hours later we saw him hiding behind boulders on the road below us. He waylaid your daughter, just as you fear. Also she gave him money." While the boy had been talking, the man's great knotted hands had closed and unclosed and cords swelled out on his reddening face. "I knew it," he cried. "Dan Abbott, I want you to help me catch that Ute. Meg won't. She ain't sure but what he is her pa, an' it's agin nature to ask her to harm him. I won't let on that you tol' me, but, Dan, we've got to trap him. You needn't be afraid of him. He won't harm you or your family. He's too cowardly for that. What's more, he's paralyzed in one arm; it's all shriveled up so he can't hold a gun." Dan felt greatly relieved upon hearing this, and wishing to change the conversation to something pleasanter, he inquired how soon Meg expected to be able to go away to school. But the subject evidently was not pleasant to the old man. "Next fall's the time, an' me and ma can't bring ourselves to think on it. Snowed in all winter without Meg's 'bout as pleasin' as bein' shet in a tomb." The anger had all died out of the leathery, wrinkled face and in the blue eyes there shone that wonderful love-light that is the most beautiful thing the world holds. "Queer, now, ain't it, how a slip of a baby girl could fill up two lives the way Meg did our'n from the start. An' she cares for us jest as much as we for her, I reckon. 'Pears like she does." The old man's voice had become tender as he spoke.