The sheriff came to dinner rather shamefacedly, but Calvin, being profoundly pleased, was on his very best behavior. "This being deputy suits me to the ground," said he to Wilson, as he rose in answer to the call to dinner.

As they were crossing the road he said, confidentially: "Now see here, you mustn't talk politics round the ladies over there, sheriff."

"Politics?"

"You know what I mean. You keep to the weather and the crops, and let this murder case alone for a minute or two, or I'll bat you one for luck."

Winters took this threat as a sign of their good understanding, and remarked, jocosely, "You damned young cub, I'd break you in two for a leather cent."

"That's all right, but what I say goes," replied Calvin. And remembering old Joe Streeter's political pull, the sheriff did not reply.

Jennie kept the talk pleasantly inconsequential during dinner by a cheery tale of the doings of a certain Chinaman she had once tried to train into a cook, and Calvin, laughing heartily, matched her experience with that of his mother while keeping house in Pinon City one winter. This left Elsie to a little conversation with Curtis.

"You must let me see this council to-night," she said, and her request had the note of a command.

"I know how you feel," he said, "and I wish I could do so; but I can't make an exception in your favor without offending the Parkers."

"Are you not the general?" she asked, smilingly. "If you see fit to invite me and leave them out, they can only complain. I'm going to stay here with Jennie, anyhow."

"In that case we can manage it."

"Do you know what I think? You've instigated this whole affair to convert me to your point of view. Really, the whole thing is like a play. I'm not a bit frightened—at least, not yet. It's precisely like sitting in a private box and seeing the wolves tear holes in Davy Crockett's cabin. You are the manager of the show."

"Well, why not? When the princess tours the provinces it is customary to present historical pageants in her honor. This drama is your due." And as he spoke he observed for the first time the absence of the ring from her significant finger. The shock threw him into a moment's swift surmise, and when he looked up at her she was flushed and uneasy. She recovered herself first, and though her hand remained on the table it had the tremulous action of a frightened small animal—observed yet daring not to seek cover.

"I hope this council to-night will not fail. I am eager to see what you will do with them," she hastened to say.

"They will come!" he replied.

Calvin was relating a story of a mountain-lion he had once treed for an Eastern artist to photograph.

"Just then the dern brute jumped right plum onto the feller and knocked him down, machine and all; for a minute or two it was just a mixture o' man and lion, then that feller come up top, and the next thing I seen he batted the lion with his box, and that kind o' stunted the brute, and he hit him again and glass began to fly; he was game all right, that feller was. When the lion stiffened out, he turned to where I was a-rollin' on the pine-needles, and says, quiet-like, 'Give me your revolver, please.' I give it to him, and he put it to the lion's ear and finished him. When he got up and looked at his machine he says, 'How much is a mountain-lion skin worth?' ''Bout four dollars, green,' I says. He looked at the inwards of his box, which was scattered all over the ground. Says he, 'You wouldn't call that profitable, would you—a seventy-dollar instrument in exchange for a four-dollar pelt?'"

Everybody laughed at this story, and the dinner came to an end with the sheriff in excellent temper. Lawson offered cigars, and tolled him across the road to the office, leaving Curtis alone in his library.

He resolutely set to work to present the situation of the sheriff's presence concisely to the department in a telegram, and was still at work upon this when Jennie entered the room, closed the curtains, and lit the lamp.

Elsie came in a little later to say, sympathetically:

"Are you tired, Captain Curtis?"

He pushed his writing away.

"Yes, a little. The worst of it is, I keep saying: If so and so happens, then I must do thus and thus, and that is the hardest work in the world. I can deal with actual, well-defined conditions—even riots and mobs—but fighting suppositions is like grappling with ghosts."

"I know what you mean," she replied, quickly. "But I want to ask you—could father be of any help if I telegraphed him to come?"

He sat up very straight as she spoke, but did not reply till he turned her suggestion over in his mind. "No—at least, not now. What troubles me is this: the local papers will be filled with scare-heads to-morrow morning; your father will see them, and will be alarmed about you."

"I will wire him that I am all right."

"You must do that. I consider you are perfectly safe, but at the same time your father will think you ought not to be here, and blame me for allowing you to come in; and, worst of all, he will wire you to come out."

"Suppose I refuse to go, would that be the best of all?" Her face was distinctly arch of line.

His heart responded to her lure, but his words were measured as he answered: "Sometimes the responsibility seems too great; perhaps you would better go. It will be hard to convince him that you are not in danger."

She sobered. "There really is danger, then?"

"Oh yes, so long as these settlers are in their present mood, I suppose there is. Nothing but the life of an 'Injun' will satisfy them. Their hate is racial in its bitterness."

"You think I ought to go, then?"

He looked at her with eyes that were wistful and searching.

"Yes. It is a sad ending, but perhaps Captain Maynard will be here to-morrow with a troop of cavalry, and—I—think I must ask him to escort you to the railway."

"But the danger will be over then."

"To your father it will seem to be intensifying."

"I will not go on that account! I feel that the safest place will be right here with you, for your people love you. I am not afraid when I am near you."

Curtis suddenly realized how dangerously sweet it was to sit in his own library with Elsie in that mood seated opposite him. The sound of a tapping on the window relieved the tension of the moment.

"Another of my faithful boys," he said, rising quickly. Then, turning to her with a tenderness almost solemn, he added: "Miss Brisbane, I hope you feel that if danger really threatened I would think of you first of all. You will stay with Jennie to-night?"

"If you think best, but we want to know all that goes on. I can't bear to be battened down like passengers in a storm at sea; there is nothing so trying to nerves. I want to be on deck with the captain if the storm breaks."

"Very well. I promise not to leave you in ignorance," and, raising the curtain, he signed to the man without to enter. It was Crow, the captain of the police, a short man with a good-humored face, now squared with serious dignity.

"Two Dog has just come in from Willow Creek," he reported. "He says the cattlemen are still camped by Johnson's ranch. They all held a council this afternoon."

"Are any of the head men here?"

"Yes, they are all at my tepee. They want to see you very bad."

"Tell them to come over at once; the council will take place here. I want you, but no more of the police. I want only the head men of each band."

After the officer went out Curtis moved the easy-chairs to the back of the room and set plain ones in a semicircular row at the front. Hardly was he settled when Elk, Grayman, and Two Horns entered the room, and, after formally shaking hands, took the seats assigned them. Their faces, usually smiling, were grave, and Grayman's brow was knotted with lines of anxiety. He was a small man, with long, brown hair, braided and adorned with tufts of the fine feathers which grow under the eagle's wings. He was handsome and neatly dressed, the direct antithesis to Crawling Elk, who was tall and slovenly, with a homely, grandfatherly face deeply seamed with wrinkles, a face that would be recognized as typical of his race. He seemed far less concerned than some of the others.

Two Horns, also quite at his ease, unrolled his pipe and began filling it, while Curtis resumed his writing.

Jennie, looking in at the door, recognized the chiefs, and they all rose politely to greet her.

"I'm coming to the council," she said to Two Horns.

He smiled. "Squaws no come council—no good."

"No, no, heap good," she replied. "We come. Chiefs heap talk—we catchim coffee."

"Good, good!" he replied. "After council, feast."

One by one the other chiefs slipped in and took their places, till all the bands were represented save that of Red Wolf, who was too far away to be reached. Curtis then sent for the sheriff and Calvin and Elsie and Lawson, and when all were seated began his talk by addressing the chieftains. He spoke in English, in order that the sheriff could hear all that was said, and Lawson interpreted it into Sioux.

"You know this young man"—he pointed at Calvin. "Some of you know this man"—he touched the sheriff. "He is the war chief of all the country beyond where Grayman lives. He comes to tell us that a herder has been killed over by the Muddy Spring. He thinks it was done by an Indian. The white people are very angry, and they say that you must find the murderer. Do you know of any one who has threatened to do this thing?"

One by one the chiefs replied: "I do not know who did this thing. I have heard no one speak of it as a thing good to be done. We are all sad."

Two Horns added a protest. "I think it hard that a whole tribe should suffer because the white man thinks one redman has done a wrong thing."

Grayman spoke sadly: "My people have had much trouble because the cattlemen want to drive their herds up the Willow, and we are like men who guard the door. On us the trouble falls. It is our duty—the same as you should say to a policeman, 'Do not let anybody come in my house.' Therefore we have been accused of killing the cattle and stealing things. But this is not true. I remembered your words, and I did nothing to make these people angry; but some of my young men threw stones to drive the sheep back, and then the herder fired at them with revolver. This was not our fault."

"He lies!" said the sheriff, hotly, when this was interpreted. "No one has fired a gun but his reckless young devils. His men were riding down the sheep, and the herder rocked 'em away."

"You admit the sheep were on the reservation, then?" asked Curtis.

"Well—yes—temporarily. They were being watered."

"Well, we won't go into that now," said Curtis, turning to the chiefs and speaking with great solemnity, using the sign-language at times. And as he sat thus fronting the strongly wrought, serious faces of his head men he was wholly admirable, and Elsie's blood thrilled with excitement, for she felt herself to be in the presence of primeval men.

"Now, Grayman, Elk, Two Horns, Standing Elk, Lone Man, and Crow, listen to me. Among white men it is the law that when any one has done a wrong thing—when he steals or murders—he is punished. If he kills a man he is slain by the chief, not by the relatives of the man who is slain. As with you, I am here to apply the white man's rule. If a Tetong has shot this herder he must suffer for it—he and no one else. I will not permit the cattlemen to punish the tribe. If you know who did this, it is your duty to give him up to the law. It is the command of the Great Father—he asks you to go back to your people and search hard to find who killed this white man. When you find him bring him to me. Will you do this?"

No one answered but Two Horns, who said, "Ay, we will do as you say," and his solemnity of utterance attested his sincerity.

"Listen to me," said Curtis again, fixing their eyes with his dramatic action. "If my only brother had done this thing, I would give him up to be punished. I would not hesitate, and I expect you to do the same."

"It is always thus," Standing Elk broke out. "The cattlemen wish to punish all redmen for what one bad young warrior does. We are weary of it."

"I know it has been so, but it shall not be so again, not while I am your chief," Curtis responded. "Will you go home and do as I have commanded? Will you search hard and bring me word what you discover?"

One by one they muttered, "Ay!" and Curtis added, heartily: "That is good—now you may go."

"I want to say a word," said the sheriff.

"Not now," replied Curtis. "These people are in my charge. Whatever is said to them I will say," and at his gesture they rose, and Crow, Standing Elk, and Lone Man went soberly out into the night.

Grayman approached Curtis and took his hand in both of his and pressed it to his breast. "Little Father, I have heard your words; they are not easy to follow, but they have entered my heart. No white man has ever spoken to me with your tongue. You do not lie; your words are soft, but they stand like rocks—they do not melt away. My words shall be like yours—they will not vanish like smoke. What I have promised, that I will fulfil." As he spoke his slight frame trembled with the intensity of his emotion, and his eyes were dim with tears, and his deep, sweet voice, accompanying his gestures, thrilled every soul in the room. At the end he dropped the agent's hand and hastened from the house like one afraid of himself.

Curtis turned to Lawson to hide his own emotion. "Mr. Lawson, I assume the sheriff is as tired as the rest of us; will you show him the bed you were kind enough to offer?"

"Sheriff Winters, if you will come with me I'll pilot you to a couch. It isn't downy, but it will rest a tired man. Calvin, you are to bunk alongside."

"All right, professor." Calvin rose reluctantly, and as he stood in the door he said, in a low voice, to Jennie, "Now if you want me any time just send for me."

"Hold the sheriff level—that's what you do for us."

"I'll see that he don't get gay," he replied, and his hearty confidence did them all good.

After the sheriff and his deputy went out, Elsie said: "Oh, it was wonderful! That old man who spoke last must be the Edwin Booth of the tribe. He was superbly dramatic."

"He took my words very deeply to heart. That was Grayman, one of the most intelligent of all my head men; but he has had a great deal of trouble. He comprehends all too much of the tragedy of his situation."

Elsie sat with her elbows on the table, gazing in silence towards the empty fireplace. She looked weary and sad.

Curtis checked himself. "I regret very deeply the worry and discomfort all this brings upon you."

"Oh, I'm not thinking of myself this time, I am thinking of the hopeless task you have set yourself. You can't solve this racial question—it's too big and too complicated. Men are simply a kind of ferocious beast. They go to work killing each other the way chickens eat grasshoppers."

"Your figure is wrong. If our Christian settlers only killed Indians to fill their stomachs they'd stop some time; but they kill them because they're like the boy about his mother—tired of seeing 'em 'round."

There was a time when Elsie's jests were frankly on the side of the strong against the weak, but she was becoming oppressed with the suffering involved in the march of civilization. "What a fine face Grayman has; I couldn't help thinking how much more refined it was than Winters! As for the cowboys, they were hulking school-boys; I was not a bit afraid of them after they were dismounted."

"Unfortunately they are a kind of six-footed beast, always mounted; there isn't a true frontiersman among them. It angered me that they had the opportunity to even look at you."

His intensity of gaze and the bitterness of his voice took away her breath for an instant, and before she could reply Jennie and Lawson came in.

Lawson was smiling. "Parker is righteously incensed. He tried to enter the council an hour ago and your dusky minions stopped him. He is genuinely alarmed now, and only waiting for daylight to take flight."

"Jerome is a goose," said Elsie.

"He's a jackass at times. A man of talent, but a bore when his yellow streak comes out." Turning to Curtis he said, very seriously, "Is there anything I can do for you, Captain?"

"You might wire your version of the disturbance to the Secretary along with mine. We can safely look for an avalanche of newspaper criticism, and I would like to anticipate their outbreak."

"Our telegrams will be at once made public—"

"Undoubtedly, and for that reason we must use great care in their composition. I have mine written; please look it over."

Jennie, who had dropped into a chair, checked a yawn. "Oh, dear; I wish it were morning."

Curtis looked at her and laughed. "I think you girls would better go to bed. Your eyes are heavy-lidded with weariness."

"Aren't you going to sleep?" asked Jennie, anxiously.

"I shall lie down here on the sofa—I must be where I can hear a tap on the window. Good-night."

Both girls rose at his word, and Elsie said: "It seems cruel that you cannot go properly to bed—after such a wearisome day."

"You forget that I am a soldier," he said, and saluted as they passed. He observed that Lawson merely bowed when she said "Good-night" politely. Surely some change had come to their relationship.

Lawson turned. "I think I will turn in, Captain; I have endorsed the telegram."

"It must go at once." He tapped on the pane, and almost instantly a Tetong, sleeping under the window, rose from his blanket and stood with his face to the window, alert and keen-eyed. "Tony, I have a long ride for you."

"All right," replied the faithful fellow, cheerfully.

"I want you to take some letters to Pinon City. Come round to the door."

As he stepped into the light the messenger appeared to be a boy of twenty, black-eyed and yellow-skinned, with thin and sensitive lips. "Take the letters to the post-office," said Curtis, speaking slowly. "You understand—and these despatches to the telegraph-office."

"Pay money?"

"No pay. Can you go now?"

"Yes, go now."

"Very well, take the best pony in the corral. You better keep the trail and avoid the ranches. Good-night."

The young fellow put the letters away in the inside pocket of his blue coat, buttoned it tightly, and slipped out into the night, and was swallowed up by the moonless darkness.

"Aren't you afraid they will do Tony harm if they meet him?"

"Not in his uniform."

"I wouldn't want that ride. Well, so long, old man. Call me if I can be of any use."

After Lawson went out Curtis sank back into his big chair and closed his eyes in deep thought. As he forecast the enormous and tragic results of the return of that armed throng of reckless cattlemen he shuddered. A war would almost destroy the Tetongs. It would nullify all he had been trying to do for them, and would array the whole State, the whole Indian-hating population of the nation, against them. Jennie re-entered softly and stood by his side. "It's worrisome business being Indian agent, after all, isn't it, George?" she said, with her hand in his hair.

He forced himself to a cheerful tone of voice. "Oh, I don't know; this is our first worry, and it will soon be over. It looks bad just now, but it will be—"

A knock at the outer door startled them both. "That is a white man—probably Barker," he said, and called, "Come in."

Calvin Streeter entered, a little abashed at seeing Jennie. Meeting Curtis's look of inquiry, he said, with winning candor, "Major, I been a-studyin' on this thing a good 'eal, and I've come to the conclusion that you're right on all these counts, and I've concluded to ride over the hill and see if I can't argue the boys out of their notion to kill somebody."

Jennie clapped her hands. "Good! That is a splendid resolution. I always knew you meant right."

Curtis held out his hand. "Shake hands, my boy. There isn't a moment to be lost. If they are coming at all, they will start about sunrise. I hope they have reconsidered the matter and broken camp."

Calvin looked a little uneasy. "Well, I'll tell ye, Major, I'm afraid them lahees that we sent back home will egg the rest on; they sure were bilun mad, but I'll go and do what I can to head 'em off. If I can't delay 'em, I'll come along with 'em, but you can count on me to do any little job that'll help you after we get here. Good-night."

"Good-night. Don't take any rest."

"Oh, I'm all right. Nobody ain't huntin' trouble with me."

After he went out Jennie said: "I call that the grace of God working in the soul of man."

Curtis looked at her keenly. "I call it the love of woman sanctifying the heart of a cowboy."

She colored a little. "Do we women go on the pay-rolls as assistant agents?"

"Not if we men can prevent it. What kind of a report would it make if I were forced to say, 'At this critical moment the charming Miss So-and-so came to my aid, and, by inviting the men in to dinner with a sweet smile, completely disarmed their hostility. Too much honor cannot be given,' etc."

"I guess if history were written by women once in a while those reports wouldn't be so rare as they are."