“That matter never worried me a whole lot, anyhow,” said Rod, after a few moments of silence. “I turned the laugh on the bunch that started in to have a howling, gay old time with me, and I was satisfied. I knew I hadn’t squealed, and I knew the professor knew it. I will admit, however, that this dog-shooting business has stirred me up some, for it sure was a contemptible thing to do, and I hate to have anybody really think it of me. Have you heard that Spotty Davis has left town?”

“No,” cried Ben, surprised. “Has he?”

“Yes; gone to Belford. He went this morning, and his father says he may not come back. Between us, Stone, I’ll admit confidential that I’m regretful because he made his getaway before I could put the screws on him.”

“Oh!” said Ben, sitting up straight on his chair. “Then you think that Spotty—that Spotty——”

“I have reasons,” nodded Rod, “to be right suspicious of him. I went to see him yesterday morning and tried to lead him into owning up to me, but he was in bed, pretending to be sick, and refused to talk. I was mightily tempted to put hands on him and choke him into telling the truth, but with my particular failing in mind, which is the one unfortunate failing of all Grants belonging to my family; I kept a tight hold on myself. I didn’t dare even to make a bluff at violence, for fear my anger would get the best of me and I would lose my head.”

“Didn’t dare!” muttered Ben.

“No, Stone, I didn’t dare. We had a confidential talk once before this, and I told you something about the Grants, but a sort of shame kept me from owning up to this special weakness I have just mentioned. It’s characteristic of us all that great excitement or acts of contention or physical violence in which we take part should arouse us to a sort of disgraceful frenzy. This was well known of my father, and in the old fighting days they used to say it was safer to stir up a man-killing lion than to provoke Hugh Grant of the Star D. I’ve told you how he fought his enemies to a standstill and won out, even though maimed for life. The Grants are all fighters, Ben.”

“I guess some fellows around here are beginning to believe that one Grant, at least, is a fighter.”

“My mother is a gentle, peaceful woman, who has suffered indescribably through anxiety and worriment produced by this fighting strain in the Grant blood. She has told me that more than a score of times she’s seen my father leave the ranch fully expecting that he would be brought back dead. In my own case, I have learned by experience that violent physical action on my part, coupled with opposition of the same sort, turns me into a raging creature, wholly lacking in restraint or any thought of consequences. You know what happened to the son of my father’s enemy at school in Houston. I nearly killed Jennings. When I came here to school I made a resolve to avoid anything that would be liable to stir me up and lead me into such folly. That’s why I refused to play football.”

“But football isn’t fighting.”

“Isn’t it?” laughed Rod. “Well, it’s fighting for a Grant, as the case of my unfortunate brother, Oscar, proved beyond the shadow of a doubt. I reckon I may as well tell you about him, for then you’ll understand things some better. Oscar is several years older than I, and two years ago he obtained an appointment to West Point.”

“Oh!” cried the visitor. “Is he—is he the Grant I’ve heard about who was hazed?”

“I reckon he’s the one, for the newspapers printed some stuff about it, although, unlike another certain famous hazing case at West Point, this affair never got into the courts. My brother was a husky fellow, and, urged to do so, he came out for football with the plebe team. He should have known better. It was impossible for him to engage in any sort of a scrimmage without slugging, and he became mighty unpopular in double-quick time. I judge that’s why he was singled out especially for a course of sprouts, and there’s no question but he was given some mighty rough treatment by the hazers. We never knew the full particulars of what happened. However, we do know he was practically stripped naked on a bitter November night and nearly drowned by having ice-cold water turned on him from a hose or a hydrant or something. When they thought him pretty nearly finished, by his appearance, he was taken under cover somewhere and efforts were made to restore him.

“He came round somewhat more sudden than those men expected, for he broke away, seized a chair and lay about him with it like a madman. One of the hazers was knocked stiff before Oscar drove the others out of the room. Oscar made his getaway, leaving that man, who had received a terrible crack on the head, to be picked up and cared for by his companions. His name was Demarest, and he was taken to the hospital. Next morning Oscar was ill and still half crazed. To cap it all, some one brought him word that Demarest was dead, which was a lie concocted, doubtless, for the purpose of frightening him. A run of brain fever followed, and, though my brother is still alive, he never recovered his normal condition; he’s on the Star D now, hopelessly deranged, though harmless.

“Now, Ben, I opine you can understand why I’ve tried right hard to avoid excitement or violence of any sort that might stir me up and make me temporarily forgetful or reckless of consequences. Barker forced a fight upon me, but it sure was a good thing for him that he couldn’t fight much, so that it was all over in a jiffy.”

“If the boys knew this,” began Ben—“if they had known it in the first place——”

“If I had told them, they’d have thought it more of my bragging,” laughed Rod shortly.

“I’ll tell them now.”

“Please don’t do it. I reckon I’ve satisfied them that I will fight when driven into a corner, and that’s enough. I’m still going to keep a tight hand on myself, for I must learn somehow to control my temper. I’ll own up it has hurt me some to know that the fellows should think me low down enough to shoot a harmless dog by way of getting revenge on an enemy. One thing I will claim, and that is that all Grants fight open and square and there never was a sneak among them. Sometime I’m sure the truth will come out concerning that dog shooting.”

It came out far sooner than Rod expected. On the following day Joshua Haskell, who owned the northern side of Turkey Hill, making certain purchases at Stickney’s store, heard some loungers discussing the shooting of Silver Tongue, and he suddenly developed a great deal of interest in what they were saying.

“What’s that?” he asked. “When did this ere dorg shootin’ happen?”

“Satterday, sometime before the storm begun,” answered Uncle Bill Cole. “The hound was killed in one of the clearin’s near the Pond Hole over on Waller’s land. Barker’s boy and two other young fellers follered the blood drops to that place, and then they tracked the whelp who did the shootin’ almost into the Turkey Hill swamp; but the storm come on, and they couldn’t foller him no further.”

“Huh!” grunted Haskell. “I guess I know who shot that dorg.”

“You do!” cried several voices.

“Yep,” nodded the man, “I cal’late I do. You see, I was cuttin’ wood on Turkey Hill Satterday mornin’. Just before the storm begun I happened to stop and look down, and I saw a boy come out of the woods on Dodd’s land, which j’ines mine. He had a gun, and he was travelin’ on snowshoes. A little while before that I’d heared somebody fire a shot over in the direction of the Pond Hole, and he was comin’ from that way. Seemed to be in a mighty big hurry, too; but all of a sudden he stopped a minute, and I see him hang something red on a bush. Then he hipered along again, as if he was afeared the Old Nick was chasin’ him.”

“Well, well!” cried Stickney, thumping the cheese box on the counter with his knuckles. “That must have been the feller. They found a red silk handkerchief that belonged to this yere Grant boy, who’s stopping with old Priscilla Kent.”

“’Twan’t the Grant boy I see,” declared Haskell. “I knowed the young rascal, fur off as he was, and he’s been up to his shindigs ’round here before. ’Twas old Lem Davis’ sneakin’ cub, as I’ll swear to; and you can bate your last dollar he shot that dorg.”