She stood quietly watching him go, her arm thrown carelessly over Eagle’s lowered head, her hair fanned by the gentle breeze, eyes bright with the excitement. The old mountaineer paused in wonder as he came upon her. His bearded lips were parted slightly, his eyes widened with astonishment. He hesitated, then thinking he might slip away unnoticed, was about to go, when she turned her head and saw him. “Oh!” she exclaimed, in a half-startled tone. “How do you do, Miss?” he said gently; “don’t be frightened. It’s just accident that I happened on you this way. What brings you to these parts?” “Why,--we were just hunting chickens,” she returned, still a little nervous. “I see, I see,” he spoke calmly. “Air ye from down the valley?” “Yes, I live at Morgan’s ranch.” Two shots from Fred’s gun broke in. “Your partner seems to be gettin’ ’em,” said Uncle Dave. “I hope he won’t kill the mother bird. The young uns need her a spell yet to teach ’em more sense. Hev ye been in this valley long?” “Just a few years,” replied Alta, more at ease. “My uncle brought me here from Ohio.” “Ohio!” the old man’s face kindled with new interest. “Why, I come from the Buckeye country, too.” “Did you really?” said Alta, alive with the thought; “what part?” “Licking County.” “Why, that’s not far from our old home. How interesting! Have you lived here many years?” Before the old mountaineer could make reply, Fred broke out of the brush holding up the two birds he had killed. He stopped in astonishment as he caught sight of his friends, then he said warmly, “How do you do, Uncle Dave?” “Oh, it’s you, boy. Glad to see ye.” “This is Miss Morgan. I brought her up to get a treat of chickens.” “Well, ye seem to hev got ’em, boy. Them’s fine fries, tender enough fer any taste. It’s all right as long’s you don’t kill the mother bird. And don’t you shoot my biddies up by the spring. There’s a late brood there--hatched this month--that I’m watchin’. The old hen brings ’em up to the cabin to see me every mornin’ and to get the scraps I save fer ’em.” Alta was all interest. “You surely don’t mean wild chickens, do you?” “Wal, they ain’t exactly wild; but they were pretty nervous till I tamed ’em.” “How did you do it?” “Kindness, girl, kindness. Most wild creatures wouldn’t be wild if their enemies didn’t make ’em so. And man is the worst enemy they hev--white man. He’s never satisfied unless he’s killin’.” Fred winced. “You’re not scolding me, Uncle Dave?” “No, boy, of course not; I didn’t mean anybody in perticler. There’s no harm in killin’ a few chickens when they’re needed. It’s this killin’ jest fer the excitement of killin’ that riles me. But come up to the cabin and rest a spell. This girl’s tired, and I want to hear some more about the old Buckeye country. Maybe she’d like some huckleberries to eat. I was jest pickin’ some when I heard you shoot. There’s a heap of them in this brush now.”