"Oh, no," said Givens, quietly; "that didn''t hurt." He stooped ignominiously and dragged his best Stetson hat from under the beast. It was crushed and wrinkled to a fine comedy effect. Then he knelt down and softly stroked the 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 over grief. "Nobody can blame you. I tried to save him, but I couldn''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, he wouldn''t have hurt a cottontail rabbit. It''ll break the boys all up when they hear about it. But you couldn''t tell, of course, that Bill was just trying to play with you."
Josefa''s black eyes burned steadily upon him. Ripley Givens met the test successfully. He stood rumpling the yellow-brown curls on his head pensively. In his eye was regret, not unmingled with a gentle reproach. His smooth features were set to a pattern of indisputable sorrow. Josefa wavered.
"What was your pet doing here?" she asked, making a last stand. "There''s no camp near the White Horse Crossing."
"The old rascal ran away from camp yesterday," answered Givens readily. "It''s a wonder the coyotes didn''t scare him to death. You see, Jim Webster, our horse wrangler, brought a little terrier pup into camp last week. The pup made life miserable for Bill--he used to chase him around and chew his hind legs for hours at a time. Every night when bedtime came Bill would sneak under one of the boy''s blankets and sleep to keep the pup from finding him. I reckon he must have been worried pretty desperate or he wouldn''t have run away. He was always afraid to get out of sight of camp."