"Well, this is a little too much," said Sandy, stoutly. "Here goes for
one more trial." So saying, he saddled and mounted his patient steed,
and, at a venture, took a new direction around a bend in the creek. As
he rounded the bend, the bark of a dog suddenly rung from a mass of
gloom and darkness. How sweet the sound! Regardless of the animal's
angry challenge, he pressed on. That mass of blackness was a
log-barn, and near by was a corral with cows therein. Then a light
shone from the log-cabin, and a man's voice was heard calling the
dog.

Fuller's!

The good man of the house received the lad with open arms, and cared
for his horse; inside the cabin, Mrs. Fuller, who had heard the
conversation without, had made ready a great pan of milk and a loaf of
bread, having risen from her bed to care for the young wanderer. Never
did bread and milk taste so deliciously to weary traveller as this!
Full-fed, Sandy looked at the clock on the wall, and marked with
wondering eye that it was past midnight. He had recounted his trials
as he ate, and the sympathizing couple had assured him that he had
been deceived by the sheep-driver. It was very unlikely that he was
driving his flock to California. And it was probable that, coming to
some place affording food and water, the sheep had left the main road
and had camped down in one of the ravines out of sight.

As Sandy composed his weary limbs in a blanket-lined bunk opposite
that occupied by Fuller and his wife, he was conscious that he gave a
long, long sigh as if in his sleep. And, as he drifted off into
slumber-land, he heard the good woman say, "Well, he's out of his
troubles, poor boy!" Sandy chuckled to himself and slept.

CHAPTER XIV.

MORE HOUSE-BUILDING.

It was an anxious and wondering household that Sandy burst in upon
next morning, when he had reached the cabin, escorted to the divide
above Younkins's place by his kind-hearted host of the night before.
It was Sunday morning, bright and beautiful; but truly, never had
any home looked so pleasant to his eyes as did the homely and
weather-beaten log-cabin which they called their own while they
lived in it. He had left his borrowed horse with its owner, and,
shouldering his meal-sack, with its dearly bought contents, he had
taken a short-cut to the cabin, avoiding the usual trail in order that
as he approached he might not be seen from the window looking down the
river.

"Oh, Sandy's all right," he heard