weakness. “Uncle Hi,” he continued, “was sick nearly four months, and I was shut up taking care of him, and missed my exercise. Before he died, he told me to come up to Rainbow Cañon. He was sure Mr. Moreley ’d be glad to have a boy and a good dog to help with the sheep. I ’ve worked on a sheep ranch before, and Pard knows a lot about the business.”
“Well, I’m sorry for you, kid, if you ’re going up to old Moreley’s. Wait a minute.” And the agent stepped to the other end of the platform and called to an old man who was unhitching his team from a post in front of a little store near by. “Hello, Thompson! Here ’s a boy who wants to go up to Moreley’s ranch. Can’t you give him a lift as far as your place?”
“Guess so, if he ’s spry,” the rancher called back in a crisp tone. “I ’m in a hurry!” he explained, climbing into his wagon and gathering up the lines. “There ’s a storm brewin’ in the mountains, and my sheep are scattered in the cañon.”
“All right! Here ’s the boy,” said the agent. “Good-by, kid, and a Merry Christmas to you!”
“Sliding back the big door, Kane revealed a warm, comfortable shed.” (See page 267.)
“Thank you—the same to you!” returned Kane, hurrying toward Thompson’s wagon, Pard following closely at his heels.
“Here, kid!” called the agent, running after Kane with an old overcoat. “Put this on. You ’ll need it riding up Rainbow. You need n’t mind returning it—it ’s too small for me now.”
This unexpected kindness brought a lump in Kane’s throat, but he murmured his thanks as he slipped into the overcoat. Then he climbed into the wagon. Somewhat impatiently Thompson moved over in his seat to make room for the unwelcome passenger. He puckered his brows into a frown as his sharp gray eyes ran the boy over critically.
“I ’m in a rush,” he asserted, starting his ponies off briskly up the mountain road.
“Got a dog, I see,” he remarked presently, with something like a sniff, as Pard trotted along by the wagon. “That feller ’s attached himself to this outfit with a mighty important air. I ain’t no use for dogs ever since Bill Stevens’s killed some o’ my lambs. They ’re a right smart of a nuisance—same as boys. Boys ask too many questions, and stand around and watch the old man do the work. I had one from Denver, but he was no good, and I shipped him back. Gid ap, Pop-corn!” to one of the ponies. “I had a boy o' my own once,” his tone softening as he became reminiscent. “But pneumony took him off—
