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Away darted Johnny Blossom without a word. Out of the stable, across the grounds, and up to an outlying field he ran as if for dear life. In a far corner of the field he threw himself down, and burying his face in the grass cried bitterly, and so hard that his whole body shook with his sobbing. “Not a bit,” said John. “It was the fault of the postmaster’s boys entirely. See what I’ve got.” And Johnny Blossom took his English boatswain’s whistle out and blew it, with beaming face. “You killed him?”.

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“Why—these are all.” Once here, the Indian stopped and took an observation. An almost imperceptible grunt escaped him and, turning on his heel, he motioned Bob to follow. It was a surprising move, for the Indian practically retraced the steps they had just taken. Bob was soon to know the reason, however, for halfway down the hill the Indian spoke, not turning his head. “I don’t think so. There are a lot of other things I’d rather do if I had the chance. Forestry’s one of ’em,” he finished with a smile at the ranch foreman. “It’s all packed,” answered Johnny..