an in a hearty way.

"Got a taste of venison," replied Mr. Jones, "and had a brush with the
Injins."

"Ah, ha! the red scamps want to smell powder again--do they? Well, I'm
ready for them, for one, and I have seven boys not an inch shorter
than I am, and as good with the rifle as the best, who would like a
sight at the varmints. But if none of your folks have seen any stray
cattle about the diggins, I must be going. Fact is, I reckon they've
been driv off by some thievish villain."

"What sort of cattle were yours?" inquired Mrs. Jones.

"One was red, and the other was a brindle."

"Was the red one very large, with very wide-spreading horns?"

"That's the ticket," said the man.

"I saw such a one last night, going down that way, by our cabin."

"You did? Was Brindle follerin'?"

"No," replied she, "but some men were driving him."

"They were Indians!" cried Tom, excitedly.

But Mrs. Jones fell to scraping the tin pan she held in one hand, with
a case-knife, and drowned his words, so that they did not hear, while
she motioned to him to be silent.

The caller sat thinking a moment. His hair was silver-white, but his
face was youthful and ruddy; and his massive, well-knit frame
indicated remarkable physical strength. He was a bold and athletic
man, skilful with the rifle, and a lineal descendant of the
revolutionary hero whose name he bore, and whose fighting
characteristics were reproduced in him.

"What time was the ox driv by?" he asked.

"About twelve, I should think," said she.

"Were the men afoot?"

"Yes."

"Well, they'll have to travel fast to git away from me! And if I catch
'em--" But the remainder of the sentence was lost in the distance, for
the old man had already touched the trail of the stolen ox, and,
dismounting, examined carefully the ground, then fiercely shouting,
"Indians!" drove on at full speed.

When he had gone, Mr. Jones turned to his wife, and asked,--

"Did you _see_ the men that driv the ox?"

"Yes."

"Why on earth didn't you say so, then?"

"Husband," said Mrs. Jones, "the trouble will come soon enough; and I
was hoping Mr. Allen would never find out who took his cattle. If he
shoots one Indian, it will bring hundreds of them upon the
settlements, and we shall have dreadful times!"

"Fush!" returned the husband; "Allen is good for a dozen Indians, and
there are plenty more of us to help him. But don't you be scared; the
red-skins know us too well to risk a fight.