“Am I? I didn't know.” He smiled at her. “Do you mind?” he added. “No; poor little fellow. He fell asleep at the table, and I carried him up-stairs and put him to bed.” Ephriam chuckled softly. “I guess you're every bit as bad as I,” he said. He seated himself on a bench by the ranch door, and fell to considering the child's story, seeking to fix some explanation to it, that would account for Young's interest in him. Inside the house the girl came and went. Lost in thought the old man did not note the passing of time, and it was only when his daughter appeared in the doorway to tell him that supper was on the table, that he roused from his long revery, but with the problem as far as ever from solution. “Bless me, it's almost candle-light,” he cried. “Where's the boy?” “He's still asleep.” “Then we'll let him be,” he said. But after they had eaten, he stole up-stairs where he found Benny still resting quietly. “He's sleeping yet, but I'll go see him again before I go to bed,” he told his daughter when he rejoined her in the room below. But when, two hours later, he mounted to Benny's room, he found him wide awake and sitting up in bed. Seeing Ephriam he smiled in friendly recognition, and sank back on the pillow. “You've had a long sleep, Benny,” said the old man. He seated himself on a low stool beside the bed, placing his candle on the floor at his feet. “Are you hungry?” he added. “No, not a bit,” said Benny. “Benny, you're sure it was the Indians that killed your father?” Benny instantly sat erect again. “Did they tell you to ask me that?” he demanded, with keen suspicion. “They? Who do you mean, child?” “The men.” “No. They have gone; you are to stay here with me.” Benny smiled, then his face fell. “But they'll come back for me,” he said. “No, you'll probably never see either of them again; they are going on to California.” “And I'm to stay here with you?” he asked. “Yes—” “For always?” he demanded eagerly. “Yes, as long as you like.” “I shall like that—always,” he declared, with an air of settled conviction. “Could you understand what the Indians said to you, Benny?” asked Ephriam. “Oh, yes.” “They spoke as I am speaking?” Again the child nodded. Ephriam looked sorely puzzled. “Hadn't you better tell me the truth, Benny?” “But I am telling you the truth; and if I told you any different they would kill me.” “Who, child? The Indians?” “Yes.” “Why were you afraid of those two men?” “Because they know,” said the boy promptly. “Know what?” “Know all about it, where my pop was killed and Mr. Landray and his brother, they know all about it—” A light broke on Ephriam. “Oh, I see, and you think they were with the Indians?” Benny nodded, and answered a whispered yes to this. “Perhaps you had better not tell any one what you have told me, Benny; but some of them were Indians?” “Some,” said Benny, still in a whisper. Ephriam turned away.