The caller sat thinking a moment. His hair was silver-white, but his face was youthful and ruddy; and his massive, well-knit frame indicated remarkable physical strength. He was a bold and athletic man, skilful with the rifle, and a lineal descendant of the revolutionary hero whose name he bore, and whose fighting characteristics were reproduced in him.
“What time was the ox driv by?” he asked.
“About twelve, I should think,” said she.
“Were the men afoot?”
“Yes.”
“Well, they’ll have to travel fast to git away from me! And if I catch ’em–” But the remainder of the sentence was lost in the distance, for the old man had already touched the trail of the stolen ox, and, dismounting, examined carefully the ground, then fiercely shouting, “Indians!” drove on at full speed.
When he had gone, Mr. Jones turned to his wife, and asked,–
“Did you see the men that driv the ox?”
“Yes.”
“Why on earth didn’t you say so, then?”