When the posse had gone with the lantern, Sally went once more into the house and began to assist her mother in caring for the wounded guard, but the girl's thoughts were far from being centered on the object of her present skill and care, and she listened momentarily and with growing anxiety for additional news concerning the owner of the lost hat. Could it be that it was not Milton's, after all? She felt almost positive that she had made no mistake in regard to its ownership, and she had suggested the leaving of the hat with her that she might give it a closer scrutiny and satisfy herself on this point. If the hat were really Milton Derr's, on the under lining, inside the band, was his name and hers, both done in red ink, along with an arrow-pierced heart, and the date on which the names had been written--September 10th. There had been a little picnic on this date. She and Milton, along with Sophronia and her beau, and a few others, had gone for an outing up in the hills. The usual rain that invariably and maliciously awaits such gatherings suddenly came up, and the party had taken shelter for a time in the old schoolhouse in Alder Creek glen--the very log building where Sally's first girlish fancy had been captured by Milt's dark eyes and ruddy face. Here, as a stripling, he had fought battles for his lady love, and Jade Beddow had sought in vain to supplant him in her affections. While the picnic party had waited for the rain to abate, Milt had usurped one of the children's desks, and written the two names on the inner lining of his hat-band, covertly showing the results of his skill to Sally. If these names should be discovered, and discovery was imminent, it would clearly fasten the ownership of the hat on Milton Derr, even if no one could identify it otherwise. She felt a growing eagerness to get possession of the hat, and tear out the tell-tale lining, yet she dared not betray her anxiety, lest it arouse suspicion and hasten the discovery she would gladly avert. In the midst of her uncertainties and fears she caught sound of Squire Bixler's voice outside the toll-house. He had hurriedly put on his shoes and great coat, and ridden over to the gate to learn the results of the fight between raiders and guards, prudently waiting, however, until the firing had ceased; and he had heard, with deep disappointment and regret, the retreating hoof-beats of horses galloping toward the hills. Despite the sound, he hoped that one raider at least had been left behind. The Squire's chagrin was poignant when he learned that not a single member of the band had been either killed or captured, and that the sole spoil of battle, on which he had so largely counted, was but a gray felt hat, streaked with blood, that had been picked up in the middle of the dusty road.