“Say, Caleb, I ain’t going to side with no man against Da, but I know him just about as well as he knows me.  Da’s all right; he’s plumb and square, and way down deep he’s got an awful kind heart; it’s pretty deep, I grant you, but it’s there, O.K.  The things he does on the quiet to help folks is done on the quiet and ain’t noticed.  The things he does to beat folks—­an’ he does do plenty—­is talked all over creation.  But I know he has a wrong notion of you, just as you have of him, and it’s got to be set right.”

Sam’s good sense was always evident, and now, when he laid aside his buffoonery, his voice and manner were very impressive—­more like those of a grown man than of a fifteen-year-old boy.

Caleb simply grunted and went on smoking, so Sam continued, “I want to hear your story, then Ma an’ me’ll soon fix Da.”

The mention of “Ma” was a happy stroke.  Caleb had known her from youth as a kind-hearted girl.  She was all gentleness and obedience to her husband except in matters of what she considered right and wrong, and here she was immovable.  She had always believed in Caleb, even after the row, and had not hesitated to make known her belief.

“There ain’t much to tell,” replied Caleb bitterly.  “He done me on that Horse-trade, an’ crowded me on my note so I had to pay it off with oats at sixty cents, then he turned round and sold them within half an hour for seventy-five cents.  We had words right there, an’ I believe I did say I’d fix him for it.  I left Downey’s Dump early that day.  He had about $300 in his pocket—­$300 of my money—­the last I had in the world.  He was too late to bank it, so was taking it home, when he was fired at in going through the ‘green bush’.  My tobacco pouch and some letters addressed to me was found there in the morning.  Course he blamed me, but I didn’t have any shootin’-iron then; my revolver, the white one, was stole from me a week before—­along with them same letters, I expect.  I consider they was put there to lay the blame on me, an’ it was a little overdone, most folks would think.  Well, then your Da set Dick Pogue on me, an’ I lost my farm—­that’s all.”

Sam smoked gravely for awhile, then continued: 

“That’s true about the note an’ the oats an’ the Horse-trade—­just what Da would do; that’s all in the game:  but you’re all wrong about Dick Pogue—­that’s too dirty for Da.”

“You may think so, but I don’t.”

Sam made no answer, but after a minute laid his hand on Turk, who responded with a low growl.  This made Caleb continue:  “Down on me, down on my Dog.  Pogue says he kills Sheep ‘an’ every one is ready to believe it.  I never knowed a Hound turn Sheep-killer, an’ I never knowed a Sheep-killer kill at home, an’ I never knowed a Sheep-killer content with one each night, an’ I never knowed a Sheep-killer leave no tracks, an’ Sheep was killed again and again when Turk was locked up in the shanty with me.”