A whistle fell on her ear. It was the sweetest music she had ever
heard, for it came from the lips of her boy.

He was in sight, coming along the well worn path that led in front
of the other dwellings and to her own door. When he saw her, he
waved his hand in salutation, but could not afford to break in on
the vigorous melody which kept his lips puckered.

She saw he was carrying something on his shoulder. A second glance
showed that it was one of the heavy rifles used by the pioneers a
hundred years ago. The sight--taken with what Omas had just said
--filled her heart with forebodings.

She waited until the lad came up. He kissed her affectionately,
and then in the offhand manner of a big boy, let the butt of the
gun drop on the ground, leaned the top away from him, and glancing
from it to his mother, asked--"What do you think of it?"

"It seems to be a good gun. Whose is it?"

"Mine," was the proud response. "Colonel Butler ordered that it be
given to me, and I'm to use it, too, mother."

"For what purpose?"

"The other Colonel Butler--you know he is a cousin to ours--has
got a whole lot of Tories" (who, you know, were Americans fighting
against their countrymen) "and Indians, and they're coming down to
wipe out Wyoming; but I guess they will find it a harder job than