It was Little Jim's day. It was his hunt. Dorothy and Bartley were merely his guests. He had allowed them to come with him--possibly because he wanted an audience. Presently Little Jim reined his horse to the left and rode up a dim trail among the boulders. By an exceedingly devious route he led the way to the spring, meanwhile playing the scout with intense concentration on some cattle tracks which were at least a month old. Bartley recognized the spot. Cheyenne and he had camped there upon their quest for the stolen horses. Little Jim assured his charges that all was safe, and he suggested that they "light down and rest a spell." The contrasting coolness of the shade was inviting. Jimmy explained that there would be no rabbits visible until toward evening. Below and beyond them stretched the valley floor, shimmering in the sun. Behind them the hills rose and dipped, rose and dipped again, finally reaching up to the long slope of the mother range. Far above a thin, dark line of timber showed against the eastern sky. "Ole Clubfoot Sneed lives up there," asserted Jimmy, pointing toward the distant ridge. "I been up there." "Yes. And your father saved you from a whipping. Uncle Frank was very angry." "I got that new rifle, anyhow," declared Little Jim. "And they lived happily ever afterward," said Bartley. "Huh! That's just like them fairy stories that Dorry reads to me sometimes. I like stories about Buffalo Bill and Injuns and fights. Fairy stories make me tired." "Jimmy thinks he is quite grown up," teased Dorothy. "You ain't growed up yourself, anyhow," retorted Jimmy. "Girls ain't growed up till they git married." Dorothy turned to Bartley and began to talk about books and writers. Little Jim frowned. Why couldn't they talk about something worth listening to? Jimmy examined his new rifle, sighting it at different objects, and opening and closing the empty magazine. Finally he loaded it. His companions of the hunt were deep in a discussion having to do with Western stories. Jimmy fidgeted under the constant stress of keeping silent. He would have interrupted Dorothy, willingly enough, but Bartley's presence rather awed him. Jimmy felt that his afternoon was being wasted. However, there was the solace of the new rifle, and plenty of ammunition. While he knew there was no big game in those hills, he could pretend that there was. He debated with himself as to whether he would hunt deer, bear, or mountain lion. Finally he decided he would hunt bear. He waited for an opportunity to leave without being noticed, and, carrying his trusty rifle at the ready, he stealthily disappeared in the brush south of the spring. A young boy, with a new gun and lots of brush to prowl through! Under such circumstances the optimist can imagine anything from rabbits to elephants. Some time passed before Dorothy missed him. She called. There was no reply. "He won't go far," she assured Bartley who rose to go and look for Jimmy.