But Mrs. Jones fell to scraping the tin pan she held in one hand, with a case-knife, and drowned his words, so that they did not hear, while she motioned to him to be silent. The caller sat thinking a moment. His hair was silver-white, but his face was youthful and ruddy; and his massive, well-knit frame indicated remarkable physical strength. He was a bold and athletic man, skilful with the rifle, and a lineal descendant of the revolutionary hero whose name he bore, and whose fighting characteristics were reproduced in him. "What time was the ox driv by?" he asked. "About twelve, I should think," said she. "Were the men afoot?" "Yes." "Well, they'll have to travel fast to git away from me! And if I catch 'em--" But the remainder of the sentence was lost in the distance, for the old man had already touched the trail of the stolen ox, and, dismounting, examined carefully the ground, then fiercely shouting, "Indians!" drove on at full speed. When he had gone, Mr. Jones turned to his wife, and asked,-- "Did you _see_ the men that driv the ox?" "Yes." "Why on earth didn't you say so, then?" "Husband," said Mrs. Jones, "the trouble will come soon enough; and I was hoping Mr. Allen would never find out who took his cattle. If he shoots one Indian, it will bring hundreds of them upon the settlements, and we shall have dreadful times!" "Fush!" returned the husband; "Allen is good for a dozen Indians, and there are plenty more of us to help him. But don't you be scared; the red-skins know us too well to risk a fight. They'll only prowl around and steal a little beef, and shoot at a fellar unaware, from under kiver--that's all they'll venter on--you can depend on that!" Then he took down his rifle, cleaned and loaded it, and saying, "I guess I'll go along a piece; perhaps Allen'll come across the varmints afore he's aware," with a quick step he was soon hidden from view.