The lion’s head made an easier mark than a tomato-canswinging at the end of a string. There was a provoking，teasing， maddening smile upon her mouth and in her darkeyes. The would-be-rescuing knight felt the fire of hisfiasco burn down to his soul. Here had been his chance，the chance that he had dreamed of； and Momus， and notCupid， had presided over it. The satyrs in the wood were，no doubt， holding their sides in hilarious， silent laughter.
There had been something like vaudeville—say SignorGivens and his funny knockabout act with the stuffed lion.
“Is that you， Mr. Givens？” said Josefa， in her deliberate，saccharine contralto. “You nearly spoilt my shot when youyelled. Did you hurt your head when you fell？”
“Oh， no，” said Givens， quietly； “that didn’t hurt.” Hestooped ignominiously and dragged his best Stetson hatfrom under the beast. It was crushed and wrinkled to afine comedy effect. Then he knelt down and softly strokedthe fierce， open-jawed head of the dead lion.
“Poor old Bill！” he exclaimed mournfully.
“What’s that？” asked Josefa， sharply.
“Of course you didn’t know， Miss Josefa，” said Givens，with an air of one allowing magnanimity to triumph overgrief. “Nobody can blame you. I tried to save him， but Icouldn’t let you know in time.”
“Save who？”
“Why， Bill. I’ve been looking for him all day. You see，he’s been our camp pet for two years. Poor old fellow， hewouldn’t have hurt a cottontail rabbit. It’ll break the boysall up when they hear about it. But you couldn’t tell， ofcourse， that Bill was just trying to play with you.”
Josefa’s black eyes burned steadily upon him. RipleyGivens met the test successfully. He stood rumpling theyellow-brown curls on his head pensively. In his eye wasregret， not unmingled with a gentle reproach. His smoothfeatures were set to a pattern of indisputable sorrow.
Josefa wavered.
“What was your pet doing here？” she asked， making a laststand. “There’s no camp near the White Horse Crossing.”
“The old rascal ran away from camp yesterday，” answeredGivens readily. “It’s a wonder the coyotes didn’t scarehim to death. You see， Jim Webster， our horse wrangler，brought a little terrier pup into camp last week. The pupmade life miserable for Bill—he used to chase him aroundand chew his hind legs for hours at a time. Every nightwhen bedtime came Bill would sneak under one of theboy’s blankets and sleep to keep the pup from finding him.
I reckon he must have been worried pretty desperate orhe wouldn’t have run away. He was always afraid to get outof sight of camp.”
Josefa looked at the body of the fierce animal. Givensgently patted one of the formidable paws that could havekilled a yearling calf with one blow. Slowly a red flushwidened upon the dark olive face of the girl. Was it thesignal of shame of the true sportsman who has broughtdown ignoble quarry？ Her eyes grew softer， and thelowered lids drove away all their bright mockery.
“I’m very sorry，” she said humbly； “but he looked so big，and jumped so high that—”
“Poor old Bill was hungry，” interrupted Givens， in quickdefence of the deceased. “We always made him jump forhis supper in camp. He would lie down and roll over for apiece of meat. When he saw you he thought he was goingto get something to eat from you.”
Suddenly Josefa’s eyes opened wide.
