Whether this was a hereditary trait, or the result of degeneracy, no one knew.  It refused to enter a house; it would not stay in a kennel.  It would not eat in public, but gorged ravenously and stealthily in the shadows.  It had the slink of a tramp, and in its patched and mottled hide seemed to simulate the rags of a beggar.  It had the tirelessness without the affected limp of a coyote.  Yet it had none of the ferocity of barbarians.  With teeth that could gnaw through the stoutest rope and toughest lariat, it never bared them in anger.  It was cringing without being amiable or submissive; it was gentle without being affectionate.

Yet almost insensibly it began to yield to Peggy’s faith and kindness.  Gradually it seemed to single her out as the one being in this vast white-faced and fully clothed community that it could trust.  It presently allowed her to half drag, half lead it to and fro from school, although on the approach of a stranger it would bite through the rope or frantically endeavor to efface itself in Peggy’s petticoats.  It was trying, even to the child’s sweet gravity, to face the ridicule excited by its appearance on the road; and its habit of carrying its tail between its legs—­at such an inflexible curve that, on the authority of Sam Bedell, a misstep caused it to “turn a back somersault”—­was painfully disconcerting.  But Peggy endured this, as she did the greater dangers of the High Street in the settlement, where she had often, at her own risk, absolutely to drag the dazed and bewildered creature from under the wheels of carts and the heels of horses.  But this shyness wore off—­or rather was eventually lost in the dog’s complete and utter absorption in Peggy.  His limited intelligence and imperfect perceptions were excited for her alone.  His singularly keen scent detected her wherever or how remote she might be.  Her passage along a “blind trail,” her deviations from the school path, her more distant excursions, were all mysteriously known to him.  It seemed as if his senses were concentrated in this one faculty.  No matter how unexpected or unfamiliar the itinerary, “Lo, the poor Indian”—­as the men had nicknamed him (in possible allusion to his “untutored mind")—­always arrived promptly and silently.

It was to this singular faculty that Peggy owed one of her strangest experiences.  One Saturday afternoon she was returning from an errand to the village when she was startled by the appearance of Lo in her path.  For the reason already given, she no longer took him with her to these active haunts of civilization, but had taught him on such occasions to remain as a guard outside the stockade which contained her treasures.  After reading him a severe lecture on this flagrant abandonment of his trust, enforced with great seriousness and an admonitory forefinger, she was concerned to see that the animal appeared less agitated by her reproof than by some other disturbance.  He ran ahead of her, instead of at her heels, as was his usual custom, and barked—­a thing he rarely did.  Presently she thought she discovered the cause of this in the appearance from the wood of a dozen men armed with guns.  They seemed to be strangers, but among them she recognized the deputy sheriff of the settlement.  The leader noticed her, and, after a word or two with the others, the deputy approached her.