Jeff knew a surge of pity. Never, in hill or any other country, should a ten-year-old stand so. It was not right that any youngster's eyes should spark with such unbridled fury, or that any child should have the complete willingness to kill that was so evident in this one. At the same time, Jeff felt something else. The youngster had control of himself and the shotgun did not waver. But taut lips seemed ready to tremble and tears lingered behind angry eyes. It was as though the boy had taken up burdens which were far too heavy, but which he was determined to carry, even while he longed for a friendly arm to help him and a sympathetic ear to which he might tell his story. And somehow, in spite of his anger, quality was evident within him. Jeff said gently, "Put your gun down, son." "Tell me what you're doing here! _With my pop's dog!_" Jeff was astounded. "Your pop's dog?" "That's him! That's Buster!" Hearing the name, Pal flattened both ears and wagged his tail. He looked at the boy without going near him. Jeff tried to collect his thoughts. "I found him a long ways from here. Clear over beyond Cressman." Uncertainty stole some of the boy's fury. "You--you did?" "That's right." "Who are you?" "My name's Jeff Tarrant and I'm a peddler. Put your gun down." "Well--" He lowered the shotgun. Two tears broke from his eyes and he shook them off with an angry whirl of his head. Jeff extended his hand. "Maybe you'd better let me have the gun." "It--it isn't loaded. I didn't have any money to buy shells!" Jeff said gently, "Taking a bit of a chance, weren't you? What if you'd pulled it on someone with a gun that was loaded?" "I--I don't know." "This is really your dad's dog?" "I ought to know him." "He doesn't seem especially happy to see you." "I--I only saw him twice. Last time a year ago. But it's my pop's!" "Who are you, son?" "Dan Blazer." "And where is your pop?" "Dead!" Dan said fiercely. "Shot by those--Whitneys!" He whirled so that his back was to Jeff, put both grimy hands to his eyes, and shook with sobs. Pal looked worried. Jeff strode swiftly across the floor, knelt beside the sobbing youngster, gathered him up, and sat with him on a homemade wooden chair whose back and seat were of laced buckskin. Laying his head on Jeff's shoulder, Dan sobbed unrestrainedly. Then he wriggled, turned away quickly so that Jeff could not see his face, and slid to the floor. He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief that was almost as dirty as his face. When he turned again to Jeff, he was calmer. "Cry baby!" he accused himself. "Big cry baby!" "Come here, Dan," Jeff said gently. "What do you want?" "To talk to you, and I've seen men cry over a whole lot less." "Really?" The thought seemed a reassuring one. "Really. Where is your mother?" "She died when I was--When I was just a child." He spoke quietly. His mother had died so long ago that all pangs were gone.