amazement as her foot touched a furry body. "Is it a dog? Oh, Ki, you didn't kill a dog?"
"No, not a dog," said the Indian showing his white teeth in a grin which was the nearest he ever permitted himself to come to a laugh. "Not a dog—a fox. I shot him last night. He would eat Mis' Watterby's chickens."
"So that was what I heard," Betty said, recalling the noise that had wakened her. "Bob, come and see the fox Ki shot."
Bob came running over to the woodshed, and appraised the reddish yellow body admiringly.
"Gee, he was a big one, wasn't he?" he murmured. "When'd you shoot him, Ki? Last night? I didn't hear anything. Stealing chickens, I'll bet a feather."
Ki nodded, and displayed a shining knife.
"You watch," he told them. "I skin him, and cure the fur—then I give it to Miss Betty. Make her a nice what you call neck-piece next winter."
"Oh, don't skin him!" Betty involuntarily shuddered. "I couldn't bear to watch you do that. He will bleed, and I'll think it hurts him. Poor little fox—I hate to see dead things!"
Her lips quivered, and Ki looked hurt.
"You no want a neck-piece?" he asked, bewildered. "Very nice young ladies wear them. I have seen."
