There was the sound of a stealthy, guarded movement in the tangled undergrowth they were approaching. Jim, whose sense of sight and hearing were strained to the utmost, heard a dead branch snap loudly, and then he saw a small, vague object appear on the opposite side of the thicket, and run limping away. His nerves were quite shattered by the events of the previous day, but here was something tangible, something at which to shoot, and, in his present frame of mind, the mere noise of his gun in that sombre solitude would have been a consolation; but the Missourian's ear caught the ominous click of the lock as he drew back the hammer. “Don't shoot, you blame fool!” he called again as he crashed through the thicket in pursuit of the fleeing object. The race was a short one, and through an opening in the brush Jim saw his friend rein in his mule suddenly with a savage jerk, and swing himself from his saddle; at the same instant he heard him say: “There, son, I ain't going to hurt you.” An instant later Jim broke through the intervening thicket himself, and to his astonishment found the Missourian bending above the prostrate figure of a child. “He tripped up and fell, he was powerful keen to get away,” explained the Missourian. “I might have hollered at him and saved him the tumble,” he added regretfully. The boy was lying prone on his back on the ground, gazing up at the two men. Bewilderment, doubt, and fear were mingled in his glance. He did not speak. “And you wanted to shoot the little cuss, Jim,” he was mildly resentful. “You're always in such a sweat to use that gun of your's, seems like you'll not be content until you plug some one with it.” Jim merely looked at the child. He saw that he was wretched enough; that his face and hands were torn and bruised, while his clothes were a fluttering mass of unpicturesque rags. The man's mouth opened in silent wonder. “I certainly am mighty glad we found him,” said the Missourian; and at these words a look of keen suspicion flashed in the child's eyes. Then they had been hunting for him! That was what the man meant! “Look at him, Jim,” continued the Missourian, all of whose emotions were easily translatable into words. “If he ain't most starved to death I certainly don't know what starving is! He's all skin and bones—what you had to eat, son?” The child struggled to his feet with difficulty; he was, evidently, very weak, for he shivered and trembled as he stood there. The Missourian put out a staying hand. “There was things growing on the bushes—I ate them,” he said in a hoarse whisper, begotten of hunger, fatigue, and exposure. “Wild plums I reckon you mean. Well, sir, me and my pardner here will fill your pinched little carcass full of bread and bacon. Wild plums! Hell! and him a growing child.” “Where's your folks?” Jim now asked, he had found his voice at last. “I ain't got any,” replied the child sullenly.