A minute later Jack had disappeared in the bushes, Melissa was running like the wind down the hill toward home, while the whole crowd in the meadow was rushing up toward the Sheriff, led by the Dillons, who were yelling and swearing like madmen.  Above them, the crestfallen Sheriff waited.  The Dillons crowded angrily about him, gesticulating and threatening, while he told his story.  But nothing could be done—­nothing.  They did not know that Chad was up in the woods or they would have gone in search of him—­knowing that when they found him they would find Jack—­but to look for Jack now would be like searching for a needle in a hay-stack.  There was nothing to do, then, but to wait for Jack to come home, which he would surely do—­to get to Chad—­and it was while old Joel was promising that the dog should be surrendered to the Sheriff that little Tad Dillon gave an excited shriek.

“Look up thar!”

And up there at the edge of the wood was Chad standing and, at his feet, Jack sitting on his haunches, with his tongue out and looking as though nothing had happened or could ever happen to Chad or to him.

“Come up hyeh,” shouted Chad.

“You come down hyeh,” shouted the Sheriff, angrily.  So Chad came down, with Jack trotting after him.  Chad had cut off the rawhide string, but the Sheriff caught Jack by the nape of the neck.

“You won’t git away from me agin, I reckon.”

“Well, I reckon you ain’t goin’ to shoot him,” said Chad.  “Leggo that dawg.”

“Don’t be a fool, Jim,” said old Joel.  “The dawg ain’t goin’ to leave the boy.”  The Sheriff let go.

“Come on up hyeh,” said Chad.  “I got somethin’ to show ye.”

The boy turned with such certainty that with out a word Squire, Sheriff, Turners, Dillons, and spectators followed.  As they approached a deep ravine the boy pointed to the ground where were evidences of some fierce struggle—­the dirt thrown up, and several small stones scattered about with faded stains of blood on them.

“Wait hyeh!” said the boy, and he slid down the ravine and appeared again dragging something after him.  Tall Tom ran down to help him and the two threw before the astonished crowd the body of a black and white dog.  “Now I reckon you know whar Whizzer is,” panted Chad vindictively to the Dillons.

“Well, what of it?” snapped Daws

“Oh, nothin’,” said the boy with fine sarcasm.  “Only whizzer killed that sheep and Jack killed Whizzer.”  From every Dillon throat came a scornful grunt.

“Oh, I reckon so,” said Chad, easily.  “Look dhar!” He lifted the dead dog’s head, and pointed at the strands of wool between his teeth.  He turned it over, showing the deadly grip in the throat and close to the jaws, that had choked the life from Whizzer—­Jack’s own grip.

“Ef you will jes’ rickollect, Jack had that same grip the time afore—­when I pulled him off o’ Whizzer.”