Glenn led her around the clearing and up to the base of the west wall, where against a shelving portion of the cliff had been constructed a rude fence of poles.  It formed three sides of a pen, and the fourth side was solid rock.  A bushy cedar tree stood in the center.  Water flowed from under the cliff, which accounted for the boggy condition of the red earth.  This pen was occupied by a huge sow and a litter of pigs.

Carley climbed on the fence and sat there while Glenn leaned over the top pole and began to wax eloquent on a subject evidently dear to his heart.  Today of all days Carley made an inspiring listener.  Even the shiny, muddy, suspicious old sow in no wise daunted her fictitious courage.  That filthy pen of mud a foot deep, and of odor rancid, had no terrors for her.  With an arm round Glenn’s shoulder she watched the rooting and squealing little pigs, and was amused and interested, as if they were far removed from the vital issue of the hour.  But all the time as she looked and laughed, and encouraged Glenn to talk, there seemed to be a strange, solemn, oppressive knocking at her heart.  Was it only the beat-beat-beat of blood?

“There were twelve pigs in that litter,” Glenn was saying, “and now you see there are only nine.  I’ve lost three.  Mountain lions, bears, coyotes, wild cats are all likely to steal a pig.  And at first I was sure one of these varmints had been robbing me.  But as I could not find any tracks, I knew I had to lay the blame on something else.  So I kept watch pretty closely in daytime, and at night I shut the pigs up in the corner there, where you see I’ve built a pen.  Yesterday I heard squealing—­and, by George!  I saw an eagle flying off with one of my pigs.  Say, I was mad.  A great old bald-headed eagle—­the regal bird you see with America’s stars and stripes had degraded himself to the level of a coyote.  I ran for my rifle, and I took some quick shots at him as he flew up.  Tried to hit him, too, but I failed.  And the old rascal hung on to my pig.  I watched him carry it to that sharp crag way up there on the rim.”

“Poor little piggy!” exclaimed Carley.  “To think of our American emblem—­our stately bird of noble warlike mien—­our symbol of lonely grandeur and freedom of the heights—­think of him being a robber of pigpens!—­Glenn, I begin to appreciate the many-sidedness of things.  Even my hide-bound narrowness is susceptible to change.  It’s never too late to learn.  This should apply to the Society for the Preservation of the American Eagle.”

Glenn led her along the base of the wall to three other pens, in each of which was a fat old sow with a litter.  And at the last enclosure, that owing to dry soil was not so dirty, Glenn picked up a little pig and held it squealing out to Carley as she leaned over the fence.  It was fairly white and clean, a little pink and fuzzy, and certainly cute with its curled tall.

“Carley Burch, take it in your hands,” commanded Glenn.