ng
again.

At last the sound of the hatchet became unbearable. She gave a quick
glance around the room, then, crossing to her father, pulled at his
arm. "If you kill Simon, there's no wood to do any cooking," she said.
"Better wait, dad--hour or two, _please_!"

He twisted from under her hand, and scowled up. "Shucks!" he answered.
"Here's chips 'nough fer a fire." And swung the hatchet with fresh zeal.

She lingered a moment, smiling grimly. It was only a play for time. She
knew very well that there would be timber when her father reached
Simon's stall.

Lancaster was making fast progress. The log upon which he worked was dry
from the heat of the hearth. It splintered like weathered pine. A
section of it was soon cut away so far that a final blow with the
hatchet head drove it in. It rolled to the noses of the mules. Lancaster
thrust his head through the hole.

Between the scantlings that penned Simon into his part of the lean-to,
the section-boss spied two glowing eyes. They watched him, then the
door, then him again. "_M-m-m-m!_" came a deep protest, as the bull blew
and pawed at the dirt floor.

The section-boss drew back nervously. "Simon's actin' funny," he said.
"He's locoed, or he's smelt a mice."

He got no answer. Dallas was in the corner farthest from him, crowded
against the logs. Her arms were raised. Her head rested between them.

Lancaster grunted disgustedly, and fell to chopping again. The opening
in the wall was not quite wide enough up and down for his body. He
enlarged it by cutting away at the lower side. Finally, satisfied with
its size, he unpinned the shoulder blanket, freed his feet, and crawled
through.

And now Dallas looked round, fastening her eyes upon the dark hole
beyond the hearth. Beside it, the lantern burned with a sickly flame.
"It's murder! It's murder! It's _murder_!" she breathed.

Marylyn tossed, moaning. Dallas ran to her. There she stayed, eyes and
ears buried in the bed-clothes.

Within the lean-to, a curious parley was being held. Lancaster was
standing, hatchet in hand, at the bar of Simon's pen. Behind him was the
stable door, before him, just out of reach, the bull. Simon was not
pawing now. His fore feet were spread wide, his nose touched the ground
between them. He was alternately mooing and blowing, and his angry eyes
were fixed, not on the section-boss, but on the bottom of the door.

"Simon, Simon," said Lancaster, in a wheedling tone. He could scarcely