“I know you’ll think I’m foolish, How,” she began swiftly, “but I haven’t much to think about, and so little things appeal to me.”  She paused and again her folded arms reversed beneath her head.  “I’ve been watching ‘Shaggy,’ the wolf here, since he grew up; watched him become restless week by week.  Last night,—­you didn’t notice, but I did,—­I heard another wolf call away out on the prairie, and I got up to see what Shaggy would do.  Somehow I seemed to understand how he’d feel, and I came out here, out where we are now, and looked down toward the barn.  It was moonlight last night, and I could see everything clearly, almost as clearly as day.  There hadn’t been a sound while I was getting up; but all at once as I stood watching the call was repeated from somewhere away off in the distance.  Before, Shaggy hadn’t stirred.  He was standing there, where you had chained him, just outside the door; but when that second call came, it was too much.  He started to go, did go as far as he could; then the collar choked him and he realised where he was.  He didn’t make a sound, he didn’t fight or rebel against something he couldn’t help; but the way he looked, there in the moonlight, with the chain stretched across his back—­” She halted abruptly, of a sudden sat up.  “I know it’s childish, but promise me, How, you’ll let him go,” she pleaded.  “He’s wild, and the wild was calling to him.  Please promise me you’ll let him go!”

Not even then did the man stir or his eyes leave her face.

“Did I ever tell you, Bess,” he asked, “that it was to save Shaggy’s life I brought him here?  Sam Howard dug his mother out of her den and shot her, and was going to kill the cub, too, when I found him.”

“No.”  A hesitating pause.  “But anyway,” swiftly, “that doesn’t make any difference.  He’s wild, and it’s a prison to him here.”

Deliberately, ignoring the refutation, the man went on with the argument.

“Again, if Shaggy returns,” he said, “the chances are he won’t live through a year.  The first cowboy who gets near enough will shoot him on sight.”

“He’ll have to take his chance of that, How,” countered the girl.  “We all have to take our chances in this life.”

For the second time the Indian ignored the interruption.

“Last of all, he’s a murderer, Bess.  If he were free he’d kill the first animal weaker than himself he met.  Have you thought of that?”

The girl looked away into the infinite abstractedly.

“Yes.  But again that makes no difference.  Neither you nor I made him as he is, nor Shaggy himself.  He’s as God meant him to be; and if he’s bad, God alone is to blame.”  Her glance returned, met the other fair.  “I wish you’d let him go, How.”

The man made no answer.

“Won’t you promise me you’ll let him go?”

“You really wish it, Bess?”

“Yes, very much.”

Still for another moment the man made no move; then of a sudden he arose.