urged almost to precipitancy by the suggestion of Seth's final
command.

After his going silence reigned in the little corn shed. Parker had a
hundred questions to ask, but none of them came readily to his lips in
face of his companion's silence. In the end it was Seth who spoke first.

"Wal," he said, with a sigh, "that's settled." His words were an
expression of relief.

"I don't understand. You've let him go. You've given him a chance to get
away in safety after----"

"Yes," responded the other grimly, "a dawg's chance."

The answer silenced all further protest.

"Yes," Seth went on reflectively, "I've done with him, I guess; we all
have. Say, he's Rosebud's uncle."

"Ah!" Parker was beginning to understand. But he was not yet satisfied,
and his ejaculation was an invitation to the other.

Seth went on as though in soliloquy.

"Yes. He's gone, an' ther' ain't no tellin' where he'll finish. Ther's a
hell some'eres. Mebbe he ken twist 'em, the Injuns, around his finger,
mebbe he can't. I 'lows he goin' to face 'em. They'll deal out by him as
they notion justice, I guess."

"But he may escape them. He's slippery." Parker hated the thought of the
man going scot-free.

Seth shook his head.

"No," he said. "He'll face 'em. I've seen to that, I guess. Jim Crow
follers him wherever he goes. An' Jim Crow hain't no use for Stephen
Raynor."

"What do you think will happen?"

Parker looked up into the taller man's face as they stood in the doorway
of the hut.

Seth turned. His shoulders shrugged expressively as he moved out and
walked toward the farmhouse.

CHAPTER XXXII

WANAHA THE INDIAN

The moon at its full shone down upon a scene of profound silence. Its
silvery rays overpowered the milder starry sheen of the heavens. The woods
upon the banks of the White River were tipped with a hard, cold burnish,
but their black depths remained unyielding. All was still--so still.

Thousands of Indians are awaiting in silent, stubborn hatred the morrow's
sentence of their white shepherds. A deep passion of hatred and revenge
lies heavy on their tempestuous hearts; and upon the heart of their
warlike chieftain most of all.

The heart that beats within the Indian bosom is invincible. It is beyond
the reach of sympathy, as it is beyond the reach of fear. It stands alone
in its devotion to warlike brutality. Hatred is its supreme passion, just
as fearlessness is its supreme virtue. And hatred and revenge a