s of armed and resolute warriors waited on
their swift ponies ready for whatever came, while behind them on a
higher ridge a smaller group of dismounted chieftains sat in council. Up
the slopes below and to the right the women and old men were leading the
ponies, laden with their tepees, children, and supplies, precisely as in
the olden times. The wagons of the white men were of no use where they
were now climbing. The ways of the wheel were no longer desirable. They
sought the shelter of the trail.

"I am confident that the troops will arrive first," said Curtis.

"If the powers of evil have found a leader, it will be hard to control
them even with a troop of cavalry," Lawson replied, soberly. "The
sheriff will go with the mob when it comes to a show down."

"Oh, of course. I do not count on him; but Calvin is loyal."

Before the office stood two or three of the white employes of the agency
with their wives and children about them. Two policemen alone remained
of all the throng of red employes usually to be seen about the yards;
the rest were out on duty or had joined their people in the hills.

"What shall we do?" cried Miss Colson, a look of mortal terror on her
face. She crowded close to Curtis and laid her hands on his arm. "Let us
stay near you."

"You are in no danger," he replied. "Those poor devils on the hill-side
are the ones who will suffer. Where are your children?" he asked,
sharply.

"They all disappeared like rabbits at sound of the bell; only the
kindergarten class remains."

"Go and help take care of them," he commanded. "Sing to them--amuse
them. Wolf Robe," he called to one of the policemen--he of the
bow-legs--"go to the people on the hill and say to them to fear nothing,
Washington protects them. Tell them they must not fight. Say to the
mothers of the little ones that nothing shall hurt them. Go quick!"

Wolf Robe handed his sombrero, his coat, and his revolver to his
friend, Beaver Kill, and ran away towards the corral, agile as a boy.

"What did he do that for?" asked Jennie.

Curtis smiled. "He is Indian now; he doesn't want to be mistaken for a
cowboy."

When he reappeared on his pony, his long, dark hair streaming, a red
handkerchief bound about his head, he looked like a warrior stripped for
battle. "There isn't a faithfuler man in the world," said Curtis, and a
lump rose in his throat. "He has been riding half the night for me, but
he charges that hill as if he were playing a