David Bond was on his knees in the bed of his wagon, beneath the high board cross. Before him he held an open Bible. But he was not reading. His head was uncovered. His beard was lifted. His eyes closed in prayer. Beside him knelt Squaw Charley, with hands pressed together, as if reverent; with shoulders bent lower than their wont; with shifting, downward look. North of the barracks, on the road that led from the steamer-landing, the two had met in the early hours to say good-by.

Swift on the first hint of coming trouble, the evangelist had made ready for his long journey to the west. Shadrach was shod, his master fitting the plates to the shaggy hoofs. The runners were taken from the green box and replaced by the red wheels. Canned food, salted meat, hardtack, and forage were boxed or sacked at the sutler's. The harness was greased. A new nail was driven home through the base of the sagging cross.

During these preparations, the post joined in an effort to damp the aged preacher's hopes and to check his going. He was needed at Brannon, they said, so that the regiment could be rid of Matthews. His belief that he could talk peace terms to the hostiles was ludicrous. As for the Jamieson women, they were dead, or they would have been returned long since to save the four condemned from hanging. And his own life was to be uselessly endangered. Already, out upon the prairie, Indian scouts were keeping watch. He might be able, though alone and unarmed, to pass them and reach the coulÉes beyond. But he would only fall into the murderous clutches of the savages swarming there.

David Bond smiled when they argued. His faith was as firm as the bluffs that ramparted the fort, and his old heart was unafraid. With him, against the rest, ranged two men—Robert Fraser and young Jamieson. They believed, as he did, that, knowing the tongue, and having friends among the Sioux, he would be in no peril; that, by now, the captive mother and daughter were on American ground again, and would be given over to his care more readily than to another's; that the arrival of troops before the enemy's camp would be fraught with risk for the defenceless two; and that an attempt to take them by force would be their death-signal.

Colonel Cummings was harrowed by Jamieson's months of anguish and illness, and angered by the indifference and dawdling of the captors in the face of his demand and threat. His heart was set upon punishment, now, not treaty. He felt that he was being played with. And he longed to find the red Sioux and thrash them soundly. A word about the evangelist's trip put him out of patience. He regarded it as futile and rash. Yet he did not forbid it—he dared not. For there was Jamieson's old-young face and whitening head; and a hidden spark of hope that would not die.

He owed it to his conscience and position, however, to discourage David Bond. "There will be sharp fighting this summer," he told him. "A hundred good men like you couldn't stop it. The cause lies too deep, and it is too well founded. In the matter of the women, you will also fail. They did not come as the price of four chiefs. Will they come because you ask for them politely? They won't. And you will be slaughtered."

"Then I shall die in a noble cause," answered the preacher, simply. "The Indians know me. I am their friend. I have spent my life with them, taught them, advised, converted. What is all my labour worth, Colonel, if I cannot go among them in times of distress?"

"Worth this," said the colonel, "that you should know when to use your common sense. I tell you, you will meet with treachery. Friend, or no friend, this year the Indians are hunting scalps."

"I put my trust in God," murmured David Bond.

"Don't put your trust in redskins," retorted Cummings, crossly. Whereupon he tramped away.

"Waste of breath—nothing else," he declared to his wife. "I'm clean put out with the old fellow. He's daft on going. Now, why doesn't he stay here, instead of sticking his throat to the knife? There's plenty to do. But, no. Off he must rush on a wild-goose chase. Well, he'll have one, mark that! He's either ripe for an insane asylum or he's a religious adventurer—and I'm hanged if I know which!"

It was the bluster that covers an aching wound; that is a vent for outraged helplessness. And David Bond understood.

When he asked leave to address the stockade, the commanding officer willingly consented. The attitude of the hostages on that occasion startled and disturbed the whole post. For the evangelist might as well have harangued the cottonwood grove across the river. He asked the braves for messages to their brothers. By way of reply, they got up, one after the other, from where he had found them, grouped in the sun before the council-tent, and strolled insolently to their lodges. Soon he was discoursing to empty space, and to a line of squaws who threw him malignant glances and jeered at him. He left, surprised, saddened, but unshaken.

Impudence, bold hatred, and defiance—these were following the smoke from Medicine Mountain. They formed a cue that pointed to one fact: The prisoners were disappointed. They had been expecting, not peace and reservation life, but freedom and battle.

David Bond felt a double need for his quick departure and his services among the gathering war-bands. He hastened his few remaining tasks and set the day for the start. Now, the day was come. His farewells had been said at the shack and at headquarters. Breakfast over and Shadrach put to the shafts, he would take his way up the river. But first there must be laid upon Squaw Charley a final and a solemn charge.

The prayer finished, he put out a hand and touched the Indian. Then he opened his tear-blurred eyes and looked at him, his face softening and working. The Squaw did not budge. His palms were still pressed tight. He blinked at the wagon-bed.

"Charles," said the evangelist, earnestly, "you and I love the little family over yonder. They have been good and kind. I want you to watch over them while I am gone, and be faithful to them. The father is crippled and weak, and he has no friends. Charles, you must be a friend to him, and to the girls. No matter what happens, do not fail them. There will be another guarding. Guard with him. Something may call him away; someone may kill him. Take his place. If danger comes, tell of it at the Fort. Do you promise, Charles? do you promise?" He leaned forward, entreating.

The outcast moved from side to side uneasily.

"Promise, promise," said David Bond. "You must give up anything for them, even your life. Remember that—even your life. I have told you often, and you have not forgot: 'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.'"

Again the Indian moved uneasily.

"'For his friends,'" repeated the evangelist. "Ah! they have been your friends!" He put his fingers beneath The Squaw's chin and lifted it. The two looked long into each other's eyes. Then they arose and parted.

Later, when the last buckle of Shadrach's harness was fixed, David Bond climbed to the seat and took up the reins. A score of troopers about the head of the white horse stepped aside and formed a little lane. Here and there, a man reached up. Here and there, too, were awkward attempts at wit. "Hope y' 've made yer will, parson," called one. "Look out them locks o' yourn don't go t' trick out some big buck," admonished a second. "Good-by," cried a third, saluting with great formality; "tell ol' St. Peter he'll git a bunch of us some time this summer."

To all, the evangelist returned his blessing.

The interpreter shoved forward through the growing crowd and made a show of friendliness. "Gran'pa," he said, "you're pritty game, all right. Most old war-hosses like you'd be stayin' home and enjoyin' their pension."

David Bond threw up his head resentfully. "Pension," he said, and shot a searching look into Matthews' face. "I am not a man who sells his principles for money. What I give to my country, I give free."

The crowd cheered him, swinging their caps.

Then there was a hush. A shrunken figure was hurrying up, stretching out thin hands to detain him. No one scoffed now. But one stout trooper put an arm about Jamieson to steady him while he talked.

"Mr. Bond, the Colonel thinks I oughtn't to go with you. He wants me to wait for the ambulance. But he's fooling—he's fooling. He means me to stay behind, and I know it. So I've come to say that I look to you to find mother and Alice. Tell them to hurry. For I can't stand this—long." The grey head dropped to the trooper's shoulder.

"Jamieson," said the evangelist, "if God spares my life I shall meet your mother and sister. I shall cheer them and help them. I believe I shall save them. If they are given to me, I shall come straight back. Do not go with the command. Stay behind, Jamieson. I'll bring them to you."

"I'll stay, then. I believe——"

The preacher smiled down, and to every side. Then he clucked to Shadrach. The tugs straightened. The wagon rolled slowly out of the post.

The sunlight shone upon the green box and the red wheels, and upon the staunch old driver, who never once looked back. Above him, emblem of the sublime Martyr, sagged the high board cross.