A large shadow rolled along the ground before him and caught his eye. From overhead came the shrill cry of an eagle--the same bird who, in spite of numerous rifle balls, had aroused the admiration of the whole party on the previous day, by its mad swoops in their direction. Tom cast a reluctant glance at the distant cottonwood and the huge pile of sticks saddled in its crotch. The old egg-collecting instinct welled up strongly within him, but he held the mustang’s head resolutely away. In his mind he already pictured the impatience of the old scout at the fork and, hardly daring to take a second look at the nest, he again brought the little pony to a full gallop. Cris Wood had been a bearer of government dispatches ever since the thriving settlement of Hopkins’ Bend could boast of a telegraph wire. His greeting for the “youngster,” as he termed Tom Ray, was that of an old friend:-- “What have you been waiting for, t’ give the Indians a chance to scalp me?” Tom laughed as he looked at the scant fringe of gray beneath the rough, worn hat. “I guess they wouldn’t be paid for their trouble,” he answered, as he took the well-handled dispatches from the old scout. “No, not by me,” retorted the latter, grimly. “But, anyway, there’s only one lot of Indians around, and they’re way over at the crossing,” referring to a point on Tom’s return journey. “All right,” responded Tom, amused at the scout’s time-honored attempt to play on his nerves. “If I see them, I’ll give them the chase of their lives.” “You’ll be the front party, most likely, though.” A few more courtesies were tossed freely from one to the other, together with what little news had fallen in the way of both before they parted. Half an hour later, as the return road before him sank gently to the lower ground, Tom’s eyes were again drawn instinctively to the tall cottonwood. Though still distant, he could already see the watchful eagle silhouetted from its topmost point. The sun was yet high--he might as well have a look at the nest. With this Tom drew the horse’s head in the direction of the great cottonwood. The boy’s approach to the lofty tree was greatly resented by the pair of golden eagles who had chosen it as a site for their home. A little ball of cottony down showed itself over the side of the rude structure. There was at least one eaglet, and Tom knew then that it would be with no small danger to himself if he chose to investigate. Then there came to him the misty recollection of the tame eagle which Jack Warren, one of the cowboys, had brought into camp. With this bit of memory his hesitation vanished.