At the edge of the water, some twenty-five yards away—for the river had fallen, and there was a strip of gravelly beach between the wooded bank and the dimpling current—the prow of his loaded canoe was drawn up. Halting at the settlement that morning to buy milk and fresh bread, he had heard all about Bran's raid on the sheep pasture. Both Bran and Bran's owner, Ben Parsons, he had long known by reputation, though his house was nearly forty miles farther up the Ottanoonsis; for in the backwoods the minutest affairs of everyone are known and discussed for leagues about. It is almost as if each man's—and woman's—hairs were all numbered.
When, therefore, Dave Stonor saw a huge black-and-tan dog, with a splendid head, emerge cautiously from the bushes a little farther upstream, and slink, wtih a slight limp, down to the water's edge, he understood a great deal at once, and thought rapidly. He loved dogs. He knew Bran's pedigree. He had no liking for Ben Parsons. He had never owned a sheep. Bran's crime was more or less venial in his eyes.
The great dog drank greedily. Then he stood gazing across towards the opposite bank, as if making up his mind to swim over.
At this moment Dave Stonor intervened.
"Bran!" said he. "Come here!"
Bran jumped as if shot, turned his head to stare
