Already in the girl's thought this newly planted monument had become a sacred thing. To let it be so soon destroyed would be an evil augury and submission to a desecration. To tell Kenneth Thornton would kindle his resentment and provoke a dangerous quarrel. She herself must remedy the matter. So Dorothy Parish went for her spade, and late into the night she laboured at that second transplanting. The roots had not had time to dry or burn, because they had been upturned so short a time, and before the girl went to her bed the task was finished, and she dreamed of birds nesting in broad branches and other home-making thoughts more intimate, but also of vague dangers and grudge-bearings. But the next morning her face blanched when her father roused her before dawn. "Kenneth Thornton was waylaid and shot last night," he said, briefly. "They fear he's dying. He's been asking for you." About the door of Thornton's cabin in the gray freshness of that summer dawn stood a clump of silent men in whose indignant eyes burned a sombre light which boded no good for the would-be murderer if he were found. As the girl came up, with her face pale and grief-stricken, they drew back on either side opening passageway for her, and Dorothy went directly to the bed. Caleb, though, halted at the threshold in response to a hand laid detainingly on his fringed sleeve. "We hates to accuse a white man of a deed like this," said Jake Rowlett, a time-gnawed old Indian fighter, "but Thornton made a statement to us--under oath. He recognized Peter Doane--and Peter would of scalped him as well as shot him only he heard somebody rustlin' the brush an' got away." "Peter Doane!" Caleb pressed a shaken hand to his bewildered forehead. "Peter Doane--but I can't credit that! Peter has sat by my hearth night after night ... Peter has eaten my salt ... Peter has been our staunchest reliance!" Caleb's glance travelled searchingly about the circle of faces and read there unanimous conviction and grim determination. "Peter has done growed to be half Injin hisself," came the decided answer. "Thornton didn't swear to no lie when he knew he mout be dyin'." Caleb straightened decisively and his eyes blazed in spurts of wrath. "Go after him then," he ordered. "It won't do to let him get away." The pursuit parties that spread into the woods travelled fast and studiously--yet with little hope of success. No man better than Peter Doane himself would recognize his desperation of plight--and if he had "gone bad" there was but one road for his feet and the security of the colony depended upon his thwarting. Pioneer chronicles crowned with anathema unspeakable their small but infamous roster of white renegades, headed by the hated name of Samuel Girty; renegades who had "painted their faces and gone to the Indians!" These were the unforgivably damned!