By four o’clock, Richard Sherwood seemed to be as ill as when his friends had found him in the forest—as hot and dry with fever, as grievously tortured with pain, as blackly tormented of mind. That he was much stronger than he had been and that the mangled hand and inflamed arm looked better were just now the only indications of improvement.

Mrs. O’Dell and Noel Sabattis did everything they could think of for his relief. Mrs. O’Dell feared for his life, but old Noel was hopeful.

“Tough feller, Sherwood,” he said. “Dat four-mile trip to-day fuss ’im up some, but he ain’t so bad like when we find ’im. T’ink he dead man for sure dat time, me an’ Jim. Doctor fix ’im a’right.”

Mrs. O’Dell left the sick room for a little while. Marion saw tears on her cheeks.

“Won’t the man from the woods get well, Aunt Flora?” she asked.

“He is very ill, dear—and in great pain—with a wounded hand,” replied the woman, kissing her.

“Does Noel think he will have to be put in the ground—like Julie was—my mother Julie?”

The woman held the little girl tight for a moment.

“Noel thinks he will get well,” she whispered.

At six o’clock Sherwood was sleeping quietly, heavy with fever and evidently unconscious of his hand. By seven he was tossing and talking wildly again. There was no sign of Jim McAllister or the doctor.

Eight o’clock came, and still there was no word or sign of Jim or Doctor Scott. The sick man was bathed in perspiration by this time.

“Dat fix ’em,” said Noel to Flora O’Dell. “Dat sweat out de fever off his blood, a’right.”

Marion went to bed at eight-thirty. Five minutes later wheels rumbled, the red dogs barked and a knock sounded on the kitchen door. Mrs. O’Dell heard the dogs and wheels and came hurrying down the back stairs. Noel, who was already in the kitchen, hastened to the door. The lamp was on the table behind him. He pulled the door wide open, and in the instant of recognizing Mel Lunt and old Hood on the threshold he also saw and recognized the muzzle of a shotgun within six inches of his chin.

Noel stepped back a few paces and the visitors followed him sharply. Hood kicked the door shut behind him just in time to keep out the red dogs. While Lunt kept Noel covered, Hood snapped the steel bracelets into place.

“Yer arrested,” said Hood. “Where’s McAllister?”

At that moment, both intruders saw Mrs. O’Dell standing near the foot of the back staircase, gazing at them with amazement and growing apprehension in her blue eyes.

“I don’t want to p’int no weepon at a lady, but you come away from there an’ set down an’ keep quiet,” said Lunt.

Mrs. O’Dell sat down on the nearest chair, which was only a few feet away from the narrow staircase.

“Where’s yer brother Jim, ma’am?” asked Lunt.

“He went to Woodstock for a doctor,” she replied.

“None o’ yer lies, mind!” cried Hood.

The expression of Flora O’Dell’s eyes changed, but she did not speak.

“Then he’s in jail by this time,” said Lunt.

“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. O’Dell, turning her darkling glance from Hood to Lunt. “He went to town for Doctor Scott. Why should he go to jail? And why have you put handcuffs on Noel Sabattis?”

“It be for us to ask questions an’ for ye to answer ’em,” cried old Hood in his worst manner. “Ye got a sick man here in the house, ain’t ye? Come now, speak up sharp. Ain’t no use yer lyin’ to us.”

“Yes, he is very sick,” Mrs. O’Dell replied, her voice low and shaken. “He is dangerously ill. My brother has gone to get a doctor for him.”

“He kin be doctored in jail,” said Hood.

“That’s right, ma’am,” said Lunt. “The doctor can ’tend him in jail. We gotter take him now. Where is he?”

“It would kill him to move him to-night!”

“Well, what of it? He’ll likely be hung anyhow,” retorted the bitter old ferryman.

“That is not true and you know it!” cried Mrs. O’Dell. “You are persecuting him in wicked spite. You are a spiteful, hateful old man! And you, Melchar Lunt—you must be crazy to enter this house, armed, and threaten me and my guests!”

Hood uttered a jeering laugh.

“We got the warrants all straight and proper,” said Lunt. “I’m in my rights, performin’ my duty under the law, whatever ye may think. We wouldn’t be so ha’sh if we wasn’t in a hurry.”

“You are in a hurry because you know that you haven’t much time for your dirty, cruel, cowardly work, and you are afraid!”

“Misnamin’ us won’t help ye none, nor the murderer upstairs neither,” sneered Hood, moving toward her.

She sprang to her feet and stood with her back to the narrow foot of the staircase. Noel Sabattis made a jump at Hood, but Lunt seized him and flung him down and threatened him with the gun. Hood advanced upon Mrs. O’Dell and suddenly clutched at her, grabbing her roughly by both arms. He gripped with all the strength of his short, hard fingers and tried to wrench her away from the staircase. She twisted, freed a hand and struck him in the face, twisted again, freed the other hand and struck him again. He staggered back with one eye closed, then rushed forward and struck furiously with his big fists, blind with rage and the sting in his right eye. Several blows reached her but again she sent him staggering back.

“Quit that!” cried Lunt. “Ye can’t do that, ye old fool!”

He grabbed Hood by the collar, yanked him back and shook him.

“Are ye crazy?” he continued. “Young O’Dell would tear ye to bits for that! Go tie the Injun’s legs. Then we’ll move her out of the way both together, gentle an’ proper, an’ go git the prisoner.”

Hood obeyed sullenly. He bound Noel’s feet together with a piece of clothesline and tied him, seated on the floor, to a leg of the heavy kitchen table.

Little Marion Sherwood had heard the dogs and the wheels and immediately slipped out of bed. Perhaps it was Ben, she had thought. That would be fine, for she missed Ben. Or it was Uncle Jim and the doctor from Woodstock to make the sick man well. She had gone to the top of the back stairs and stood there for a long time, listening, wondering at what she heard. She had been puzzled at first, then frightened, then angered. She had fled along the upper halls to the head of the front stairs and down the stairs. She had felt her way into the library and to a certain bookcase and from beneath the bookcase she had drawn the shallow, mahogany box which contained the little pistols with which gentlemen had proved themselves gentlemen in ancient days.

She had opened the box and worked with frantic haste—with more haste than speed. She had worked by the sense of touch alone and fumbled things and spilled things. Bullets had rolled on the floor, powder had spilled everywhere, wads and caps and the little ramrod had escaped from her fingers again and again; but she had retained enough powder, enough wads, two bullets and two caps. She had returned up the front stairs and along the narrow halls.

Now that Noel was tied down, Lunt stood his gun against the wall and gave all his attention to Mrs. O’Dell.

“I don’t want to hurt ye,” he said. “An’ I ain’t goin’ to hurt ye. But I gotter go upstairs, me an’ Tim Hood, an’ fetch down the prisoner ye’ve got hid up there. I’m sorry Tim mussed ye up, ma’am, but ye hadn’t ought to obstruct the law. Will ye kindly step aside, Mrs. O’Dell?”

“I won’t! If you force your way past me and carry that man off to-night you’ll be murderers, for he’ll die on the road. If you try, I’ll fight you from here every step of the way.”

“We’re in our rights, ma’am. I’m a constable an’ here’s the warrant. It ain’t my fault he’s sick—even if that’s true. You grab her left arm, Tim, an’ I’ll take her right, an’ we’ll move her aside an’ nip upstairs. But no rough stuff, Tim!”

A voice spoke in a whisper behind Mrs. O’Dell, from the darkness of the narrow staircase.

“Put your right hand back and take this pistol.”

The woman recognized the voice but failed to grasp the meaning of the words. The little girl was frightened, naturally. That thought increased her unswerving hot rage against the men in front of her. She did not move or say a word in reply.

She felt something touch her right hand, which was gripped at her side. Again she heard the whisper.

“Take it, quick. It’s all loaded, the way Ben told me. I have the other. Point it at them, quick!”

The men moved toward her. She opened her fingers and closed them on the butt of a pistol. She felt a weight on her shoulder and saw a thin arm and small hand and the other old dueling pistol extended past her ear. She raised her own right hand and cocked the hammer with a click.

“They are loaded!” cried the little girl shrilly. “And the caps are on, and everything. Ben showed me how to load them. And I’ll pull the trigger if you come another step, you old man with the queer whiskers! The bullets are big. And I put two in each pistol and plenty of powder.”

“Stand close together, you two, and move to the left,” said Mrs. O’Dell. “Do you hear me, Lunt? Do as I tell you, or I’ll shoot—and so will the little girl. These are real pistols. That’s right. That’s far enough. Stand there and stand steady.”

“This is a serious matter, Mrs. O’Dell,” exclaimed Lunt. “You are guilty of threatenin’ the law with deadly weapons—of resistin’ it with firearms.”

Mrs. O’Dell put up her left hand and relieved the child of the other pistol, at the same time speaking a few words in a low voice but without taking her glance or her aim off the intruders. Marion slipped past her, ran over and took Lunt’s gun from where he had stood it against the wall.

“Steady, both of you,” warned the woman. “Keep your eyes on me. You will notice that I am not aiming at your heads. I’m aiming at your stomachs—large targets for so short a range.”

Marion carried the shotgun over to the table and placed it on the floor beside old Noel Sabattis. Then, moving swiftly and with precision, she opened a drawer in the table, drew out a knife and cut the thin rope which bound the Maliseet’s legs together and to the table.

Noel seized the gun at the breech with his manacled hands and got quickly to his feet. With both hands close together on the grip of the stock, he pushed the lever aside with a thumb. The breech fell open, disclosing the metal base of a cartridge. He closed the breech by knocking the muzzle smartly on the edge of the table. His hands had only an inch of play, but that was enough. They overlapped around the slender grip, with the hammer within easy reach of a thumb and the trigger in the crook of a finger.

“Dat a’right,” he said, glancing over the intruders. “Good gun, hey? Light on de trigger, hey?”

“Sure she’s light on the trigger!” cried Lunt. “Mind what ye’re about, Noel! A joke’s a joke—but ye’ll hang for this if ye ain’t careful!”

Noel smiled and told them to sit down on the floor. They obeyed reluctantly, protesting with oaths. Then he asked the little girl to open the door and admit the dogs, which she did. The red dogs bounded into the kitchen, took in the situation at a glance and surrounded the two seated on the floor. Red Chief and Red Lily showed their gleaming fangs, whereupon old Tim Hood became as silent and still as a man of wood.

“I think you have them safe, Noel,” said Mrs. O’Dell.

Noel nodded.

“Then I’ll go up and give him his quinine,” she said, handing the pistols over to the enthusiastic little girl.

Noel and Marion sat down on chairs in front of the constable and the ferryman. The three dogs stood. Everything pointed at the two on the floor—five pairs of eyes, the muzzles of firearms and the muzzles of dogs.

“Forgit it, Noel,” said Mr. Lunt. “Cut it out. What’s the use? I’m willin’ to let bygones be bygones. Call off yer dogs an’ swing that there gun o’ mine off a p’int or two an’ Tim an’ me will clear out. Careful with them pistols, little girl, for Heaven’s sake! Noel, ain’t she too young to be handlin’ pistols? She might shoot herself.”

Noel smiled and so did Marion.

“I’ll give ye the warrants, Noel, an’ say no more about it,” continued the constable. “We got three warrants here—an’ the charges agin’ ye are real serious—but I’m willin’ to forgit it. So there ain’t no sense in keepin’ us here, clutterin’ up Mrs. O’Dell’s kitchen.”

“She don’t care,” replied Noel. “An’ Marion don’t care. You like it fine, Marion, hey? ’Taint every night you git a chance for to set up so late like dis, hey?”

“Yes, thank you, I enjoy it,” said the little girl. “It is great fun. It is like a story in a book, isn’t it, Noel?”

“Hell!” snorted old Tim Hood.

Noel cocked an eye at the ferryman and he cocked the gun at the same time.

“Lemme unlock yer handcuffs for ye,” offered Lunt. “Ye’ll feel more comfortable without ’em, Noel.”

“Guess not,” returned Noel. “Feel plenty comfortable a’ready.”

Wheels sounded outside, and voices; and the youngest of the red dogs barked and turned tail to his duty and frisked to the door. The others stood firm and kept their teeth bared at the men on the floor, but their plumed tails began to wag. Old Noel’s glance did not waver, but Marion’s eyes turned toward the door.

The door opened and men crowded into the kitchen and halted in a bunch and stared at the unusual scene before them. There was Doctor Scott, with a black bag in his hand. There was Uncle Jim, with a white bandage on his head which made his hat too small for him. And there was Sheriff Corker fixing a cold glare on the two men seated on the floor. And over all showed the smiling face of young Ben O’Dell.

Jim McAllister was the first to speak.

“Where’s Flora?” he asked.

“Upstairs,” answered Noel. “Everyt’ing a’right an’ waitin’ for de doctor.”

He stood up, lowered the hammer of the gun and placed the weapon on the table.

“Now you take dis handcuffs off darn quick, Mel Lunt,” he said.

The constable scrambled heavily to his feet and obeyed.

Doctor Scott crossed the room and vanished up the narrow stairs. Sheriff Corker found his voice then and addressed Lunt and old Tim Hood at considerable length and with both force and eloquence. His words and gestures seemed to make a deep and painful impression on them, but the rest of the company paid no attention. Ben kissed the little girl, shook hands with Noel Sabattis, grabbed the leaping dogs in his arms, told fragments of his Quebec adventures to any one who chose to listen and asked question after question without waiting for the answers.

Uncle Jim seated himself beside the table and lit a cigar, cool as a cucumber, smiling around. Sheriff Corker marched Lunt and Hood out of the kitchen and out of the woodshed, still talking, still gesticulating violently with both hands. Those in the kitchen heard wheels start and recede a minute later. Marion went to Uncle Jim and asked him what he had done to his head. He told her of his difficulty with the young policeman which had caused all the delay, of the home-coming of the sheriff when Doctor Scott was bandaging his head, and of the arrival of Ben and Mr. Brown at the sheriff’s house a few minutes later.

“But what are you doing with those old pistols?” he asked.

“Those two men came to take the sick man away,” she said. “They tied Noel to the table and fought with Aunt Flora. I heard them; so I loaded the pistols—and then they were at our mercy.”

Mrs. O’Dell appeared and ran into her son’s arms. She backed out presently, and they both moved over to where Uncle Jim and the little Sherwood girl sat side by side, hand in hand. Noel Sabattis and the dogs followed them.

“The doctor says it is slow fever, but that the worst is over with,” said Mrs. O’Dell. “He must have had it for weeks and weeks. And the arm can be saved. The crisis of the fever came to-night—and a drive into town to-night would have killed him.” She slid an arm around the little girl. “But for Marion, they would have taken him,” she continued. “Noel was tied to the table and I couldn’t have kept them off much longer—and she loaded the dueling pistols in the dark and brought them to me—just in the nick of time.”

“She saved his life, sure enough,” said Jim McAllister.

“Flora done mighty good too,” spoke up old Noel Sabattis. “She fit ’em off two-t’ree time an’ bung Hood on de eye.”

Mrs. O’Dell laughed and blushed.

“I did my best—but you and the old pistols saved him, dear,” she whispered in Marion’s ear. “And by to-morrow, perhaps, or next day, he will be well enough to thank you.”

The child looked intently into the woman’s eyes and the lights in her own eyes changed gradually. Her thin shoulders trembled.

“Who—is—he?” she whispered in a shaken thread of voice.

“Your very own dad,” replied Mrs. O’Dell, kissing her.

Jim McAllister made coffee. The doctor joined the men in the kitchen, for his patient was sleeping. Ben told of his and Mr. Brown’s successful search for the man who had shot Louis Balenger on French River. He admitted that the actual capture of Balenger’s old enemy had been made by the police of Quebec—but he and Dave had been very busy. While he talked he toyed with the pistols which Marion had left on the table. He removed the caps. He looked into one barrel and saw that it was loaded to within a fraction of an inch of the muzzle. He produced a tool box in the shape of a knife from his pocket and opened a blade that looked like a small ice pick. With this he picked a few paper wads out of the barrel. With the last wad came a stream of black powder.

“Hullo!” he exclaimed, forgetting his adventures in Quebec.

He thumped the muzzle of the pistol on the table until another wad came out, followed by two bullets. The others, watching intently, exchanged glances in silence. Ben withdrew the charge from the other pistol.

“She put the bullets in first!—in both of them!” he cried.

“But it worked,” said Uncle Jim. “It turned the trick. She saved her pa’s life—so I guess that’s all right!”