He hurried to bring the horse and helped her into the saddle. She could hardly hold herself there. “Now, Alta,” he said, “be brave; I’ll take care of you.” He vaulted into his own saddle as he spoke and rode close by her side, supporting her with one arm as they went slowly along the trail. “Fred,” she said, as they neared the Morgan ranch, “you needn’t go any farther. I’m all right.” “But I mean to see you safely home.” “Please don’t,” she pleaded; “go back to your herd. Uncle must not know a word of this. It will drive him wild with worry and anger.” “Surely you don’t want that devil to escape. I’ll rouse the valley to capture and punish him.” “Let him go, Fred; God will punish him.” “Well, if you wish it,” he said reluctantly; “but it’s hard to hold down my feelings.” “Thank you, I’ll see you again. God bless you for being so good to me. But take care of yourself, Fred.” She touched her reins as she spoke and Eagle carried her on gently toward home. Fred watched until she passed through the ranch gate, then with a strange feeling tugging at his heart, he turned to gallop back and gather up his herd. Why didn’t she want him to tell? What could it all mean? were the tormenting questions that kept buzzing through his brain as he scouted about the brush to round up his scattered herd. For several hours he hunted and worried and worried and hunted. The sun wheeled far down the west before he had his herd together; and then to his dismay, when he counted up, one of his best cows was missing. Heading the rest toward the ranch, he took one more look up the creek. Half a mile away he found the poor beast shot dead. It was the work of that dastardly white Indian, Fred felt sure of that. But the coward had no weapon. How could he do it? The boy examined the ground about the animal. Several moccasin tracks and the print of pony hoofs told him that Nixon was not alone. His first impulse was to strike for the ranch and rouse the valley. But his promise to Alta held him from doing anything. He would keep his eyes open and find out for himself what was wrong. The time might come when he could strike. “And if it ever does come,” he said to himself, “I’ll strike hard.” CHAPTER XIV AT THE OLD SHACK Crisp autumn time had come. With lavish yet artistic touch the season had painted all the craggy mountain land. The hills, splashed with scarlet, yellow, purple, and other gorgeous hues, seemed to have put on Joseph’s coat of many colors. The sunburnt meadows, patterned with golden willow patches, made a pretty carpet for the valley floor, while over all the pink-tinted mist of the Indian summer sun threw a veil of mystic beauty. Poets are prone to sing of the autumn as the melancholy time of the year. Rather is it nature’s social season, the time when all wild things gather to celebrate with gorgeous pageantry, and to feast on the good things Mother Nature spreads before them.