She was locked in the smithy the next evening, and in the morning the shed was empty. O’Donnell was positive that the staple and chain on the door had been secure when he left her the night before; yet now the staple dangled free, with a splinter attached. Reflecting that the hound’s weight made this feat possible, he ceased to speculate; and in the blacksmith’s soul entered peace. Shiela had fled. The Wednesday following fell blustery, with a bullying wind, and the range boss sat late at his table, working over a cattle tally by the light of a lantern. A timid scratching on the door-sill disturbed him, and he listened curiously. There it was again, this time accompanied by a plaintive whine. He reached the handle in a stride. “Shee-la! Shee-la, old girl!” His glad cry brought Mit running. Shiela slunk into the room and crossed to the fire, which she sniffed doubtfully and then lay down in front of it. Down her throat and across her left shoulder burned cherry-colored slashes. She touched her tongue to them and began to clean her soiled coat, while O’Donnell stood watching, lost in wonder. The wolfhound growled as he moved, but he laughed affectionately and stooped to the fearfully lowered head. “So you’ve come back--like the prodigal,” he whispered. “Poor, poor Shee-la!” “Mit,” he bawled the next instant, “kill the spotted calf, or the fatted heifer, or whatever else will do. She’s hungry.” Not being conversant with the tale of the erring son, the cook roared back a request to Steve to have sense--didn’t he know there wasn’t a calf in the pen? “Bring some beef, then,” laughed the boss. The animal’s eyes followed her master furtively. He noted that flickering gleam with a pang--the fear and suspicion of the hunted in it. So much had three days with the wild linked up the slack chain of her blood tie. Then presently she licked his hand, and the look that answered his was soft and appealing as of old. “Here’s enough to choke her,” announced Mit cheerily, entering with a slab of beef. The hound sprang at him and the cook, taking no chances, hurled the raw meat into the air. She caught it as it touched the floor and tore into it with the desperate zest of the famished. The days drifted one into another, and the Tumbling H men rose and ate and slept, and rose again, which is the sum of many lives. Of work there could be little until the spring rains fell. Would the good days of the roundup never come? Oh, the sweltering hours in the saddle, and the bellowings of mighty herds, and the choking dust of the corrals in branding!