The boy turned in his saddle to look in the same direction and saw several Indians trailing down the hill. Their ponies seemed to be loaded. “Guess they’ve killed some blacktail or young elk.” “It’s out of season, isn’t it?” “Yes, but they don’t pay any heed to the game laws.” “Won’t the warden arrest them?” “He’ll ketch ’em fust; and then if he tries to bring ’em to time, there’ll be trouble. They’re perty sassy ’bout their rights in this country yet. You’d better take the trail south o’ the creek, and keep out of their way.” “All right. Thanks for your kindness, Uncle Dave. I hope I haven’t bothered you too much with my questions.” “No bother at all, boy. Glad to hev you. It gets kind o’ lonesome here sometimes, with no one to talk to ’cept nature. Come agin.” “I surely will; good night.” “Good night, boy.” The old mountaineer watched until Fred disappeared with a good-by wave of his hand over the crest of the hill, and then he turned to his dog and said quietly, “Come, Tobe, let’s git old Middie; it’s ’bout milkin’ time.” CHAPTER III MORGAN’S DANCE Fred did not reach the ranch till long after dark; he found it deserted of all but Dan, who sat on the steps. “Hello,” he called out cheerily as he galloped up; “all alone?” “Yes,” was Dan’s quiet reply; “the rest have gone to Morgan’s to dance the devil out of them, or in--I don’t know which. Where have you been all day?” “Oh, just scouting about the hills for fun. There, Brownie, trot away and feed yourself”; he said, jerking off his saddle. After hanging it up, he returned. “Aren’t you going to the dance?” asked Dan. “Oh, it’s so late I don’t like to go. I think I’ll tumble in and take a good rest. There’s work coming to-morrow.” “Yes,” responded Dan, “and there’ll be few hands to do it. The boys won’t get rid of their whisky by then.” The two chatted on a little while, then both went to their bunks and quieted down. Fred lay for a few moments listening to the frogs croaking in the pond near by till he dropped off into a sleep as peaceful as the night about him. Across the creek at Morgan’s ranch, however, the night was far from quiet. The big rooms of the ranch house were bright with light and ringing with music, laughter, and chatty, half-boisterous voices. The dance was at its height. Old Morgan had been in the war, and he was full of patriotism, always flinging his doors wide open on the Fourth with Western welcome to all his neighbors, urging them to come, and taking it hard if they didn’t. So they came in force, on horseback or clattering in buckboards, came full of rough fun, and when they could get it, full of whisky.