e perceived in his
father a return to rugged manliness, opened his hand to him.

Together they took care of the horse, together they walked the streets.
They sat at supper together and the father's joy was very great when at
night they camped together and Mose so far unbent as to tell of his
adventures. He did not confide his feeling for Mary--his love was far
too deep for that. A strange woman had reached it by craft, a father's
affection failed of it.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE EAGLE GUARDS THE SHEEP

Mose did not enter upon his duties as guard with joy. It seemed like
small business and not exactly creditable employment for a trailer and
cow puncher. It was in his judgment a foolish expenditure of money; but
as there was nothing better to do and his need of funds was imperative,
he accepted it.

The papers made a great deal of it, complimenting the company upon its
shrewdness, and freely predicted that no more hold-ups would take place
along that route. Mose rode out of town on the seat with the driver, a
Winchester between his knees and a belt of cartridges for both rifle and
revolvers showing beneath his coat. He left the stable each morning at
four A. M. and rode to the halfway house, where he slept over night,
returning the following day. From the halfway house to the Springs there
were settlers and less danger.

He was conscious of being an object of curious inquiry. Meeting stage
coaches was equivalent to being fired at by fifty pistols. Low words
echoed from lip to lip: "Black Mose," "bad man," "graveyard of his own,"
"good fellow when sober," etc. Sometimes, irritated and reckless, he
lived up to his sinister reputation, and when some Eastern gentleman in
brown corduroy timidly approached to say, "Fine weather," Mose turned
upon him a baleful glare under which the questioner shriveled, to the
delight of the driver, who vastly admired the new guard.

At times he was unnecessarily savage. Well-meaning men who knew nothing
about him, except that he was a guard, were rebuffed in quite the same
way. He was indeed becoming self-conscious, as if on exhibition,
somehow--and this feeling deepened as the days passed, for nothing
happened. No lurking forms showed in the shadow of the pines. No voice
called "Halt!" It became more and more like a stage play.

He was much disturbed by Jack's letter which was waiting for him one
night when he returned to Wagon Wheel.

"DEAR HARRY: I went up to see Mary a few