ge which had swept over the agency. As he had stood in the office
door ten minutes before, his ears had been filled with the clink-clank
of the blacksmiths' hammers, the shouts of drivers, and the low laughter
of young women on their way to the store. Crane's Voice was hitching up
his team, while Lost Legs and Turkey Tail were climbing to the roof of
the warehouse with pots of red paint. Peter Wolf was mending a
mowing-machine, and his brother Robert was cutting wood behind the
agency kitchen. All about he had observed groups of white-blanketed
Indians smoking cigarettes in the shade of the buildings, while a crowd
of nearly twenty others stood watching a game of duck-on-the-rock before
the agency store.

Now as he looked over the yards not a redman could be seen at his work.
On every side the people, without apparent haste, but surely, steadily,
and swiftly, were scattering. The anvil no longer cried out, the
teamsters were silent, all laughter had ceased, the pots of paint sat
scorching in the sun. There was something fiercely ominous as well as
uncanny in this sudden, silent dispersion of a busy, merry throng, and
Curtis, skilled in Indian signs, appreciated to the full the distrust of
the white man here expressed. He understood this panic. The settlers had
long threatened war. Now the pretext had come, and the sound of guns was
about to begin.

"Wilson," said Curtis, calmly, "if the settlers fire a shot they will
regret it. See Crane's Voice, if you can find him, and send him to me."
He turned to Crow and signed: "Go tell your people I will not let the
cowboys hurt them. Hurry! Call them all back. Tell them to go to work. I
will call the soldiers, if necessary, to keep the white man away. There
is no danger."

Crow was a brave and loyal man, and, weary as he was, hastened to carry
out his orders. The call for "assembly" was rung on the signal-bell, and
a few of the red employes responded. To them Curtis spoke reassuringly,
but his words were belied by Thomas Big Voice, the official interpreter,
who was so scared his knees shook.

Curtis sent Wilson to quiet the teachers and hurried immediately to the
studio, where Elsie was at work painting a portrait of old Chief Black
Bull. The old man sprang to his feet the instant he caught sight of his
agent's face.

"Friend, what is the matter?" he asked.

To Elsie, Curtis said: "Do not be alarmed."

"There is no danger," he signed to Black Bull. "The white man's body