ich was so characteristic of this thoughtful plainsman,
he fetched water from the tank of the locomotive, tore off a large portion
of his own flannel shirt, and proceeded to wash the wound as tenderly as
might any devoted mother. He was used to a rough treatment of wounds, and,
by the time he had bandaged the pretty head, he found that his supply of
shirt was nearly exhausted. But this in no way disturbed him.

With great resource he went back to the prairie and tore out great
handfuls of the rank grass, and so contrived a comparatively luxurious
couch for his foundling on the foot-plate of the engine.

By this time the men were returning from their search for the bodies at
the ruins of the ranch. The story was quickly told. The remains had been
found, as might have been expected, charred cinders of bone.

There was no more to be done here, and Somers, on his return to the track,
sounded the true note of their necessity.

"We must git back. Them durned Injuns 'll make tracks fer Beacon Crossing,
or I'm a Dago."

Then he looked into the cab where the still form of the prairie waif lay
shaded by a piece of tarpaulin which Seth had found on the engine. He
observed the bandage and the grass bed, and he looked at the figure
bending to the task of firing.

"What are you goin' to do with her?" he asked.

Seth worked on steadily.

"Guess I'll hand her over to Ma Sampson," he said, without turning.

"Maybe she has folks. Maybe ther's the law."

Seth turned now.

"She's mine now," he cried over his shoulder. Then he viciously aimed a
shovelful of coal at the open furnace door.

All his years of frontier life had failed to change a naturally tender
heart in Seth. Whatever he might do in the heat of swift-rising passion it
had no promptings in his real nature. The life of the plains was his in
all its varying moods, but there was an unchanging love for his kind under
it all. However, like all such men, he hated to be surprised into a
betrayal of these innermost feelings, and this is what had happened.
Somers had found the vulnerable point in his armor of reserve, but, like
the sensible man he was, he kept his own counsel.

At the saloon in Beacon Crossing the men were less careful. Their
curiosity found vent in questionable pleasantries, and they chaffed Seth
in a rough, friendly way.

On their arrival Seth handed the still unconscious child over to the wife
of the hotel-keeper for an examination of her clothes. He