“This morning,” Proutt declared. “Scant daylight. Down in the Swamp.” Westley stood very still, trying to remember whether he had seen Reck early that morning. And he could only remember, with a shocking certainty, that Reck had not been at home when he came out of the house to do his chores. He had called and got no answer; and it may have been half an hour before the dog appeared. It had disturbed Westley at the time; and he scolded Reck for self-hunting. But any dog will range the home farm in the morning hours, and Westley had not taken the matter seriously. Proutt’s words, and his tone more than his words, made the matter very serious indeed. Westley forced himself to ask: “What were you doing in the Swamp?” “I was after a deer,” said Proutt; and when Westley remained silent, Proutt added huskily: “So was Reck.” Westley cried: “That’s a lie.” But his own voice sounded strange and unnatural in his ears. He would not believe. Yet he knew that other dogs had chased deer in the past, and would again. He had himself shot half a dozen. It was the law; and he was the instrument of the law. And this was the very bitterness of Proutt’s accusation; for if it were true, then he must shoot Reck. And Westley would as soon have shot one of his own blood as the dog he loved. In the little instant of silence that followed upon his word, he saw all this, too clearly. And in spite of his love for Reck, and in spite of his ardent longing to believe that Proutt had lied, he feared desperately that the man spoke truth. Westley’s wife would never have believed; for a woman refuses to believe any evil of those she loves. She is loyal by refusing to believe; a man may believe and be loyal still. Westley did not know whether to believe or not; but he knew that he was terribly afraid. He told Proutt: “That’s a lie!” And Proutt, after a long moment, clucked to his horse and started on. Westley called after him: “Wait!” Proutt stopped his horse; and Westley asked: “What are you going to do?” “You’re game warden,” Proutt told him sullenly. “Nobody around here can make you do anything, less’n you’re a mind to. But I’ve told you what’s going on.” Westley was sweating in the cold, and said pitifully: “Proutt, are you sure?” “Yes,” said Proutt; and Westley cried: “What did you see?” “I had a deer marked,” said Proutt slowly. “He’d been feeding under an old apple tree down there. I was there before day this morning, figuring to get a shot at him. Crep’ in quiet. Come day, I couldn’t see him. But after a spell I heard a smashing in the brush, and he come out through an open, and was away before I could shoot. And hot after him came Reck.” “How far away?” Westley asked. “Not more’n ten rod.” “You couldn’t be sure.” “Damn it, man, I know Reck. Besides, I wouldn’t want to say it was him, would I? He’s a grand dog.” “What did you do?” Westley asked. “Yelled at him to come in.” “Did he stop?”