chuckle which made his faithful
Tetong aids break into sympathetic grins.

Nevertheless, the case was not entirely humorous. In a certain sense he
had cut athwart the law in this last transaction, though in doing so he
had prevented an act of violence which would have still further
embittered the tribe. "I am right," he said, and put away all further
doubt.

The drive now settled into a race for the jail. "The sheriff, after
being picked up by his own party, will undertake to overhaul us,"
reasoned Curtis, but that did not trouble him so much as the thought of
what lay before him.

The road ran along Willow Creek, winding as the stream itself, and
Curtis could not avoid the thought of an ambuscade. On the right were
clumps of tall willows capable of concealing horsemen, while on the left
the hot, treeless banks rose a hundred feet above the wagon, and the
loopings of the track prevented a view of what was coming. If the mob
should get impatient, or if they should suspect his trick, it would be
easy to send a detachment across the hills and intercept him. "Push
hard!" he signed to Two Horns.

The road was smooth and dusty and descended rapidly, so that the horses
had little to do but guide the tongue. As the wagon rocked and reeled
past the ranch houses, the settlers had hardly time to discern what
manner of man was driving, but they were thrown into fierce panic by the
clatter of fleeing horses and the cloud of prophetic dust. The sheriff
was not in sight, and no sound of him could be detected in the whiz of
their own wheels.

At last Two Horns, with his moccasined foot on the brake, broke through
the hills out upon the valley land, with Pinon City in sight. The mob
and the sheriff were alike left behind. Ambush was now impossible.

"Easy now, Two Horns," called Curtis, with a smile and an explanatory
gesture. "We're safe now; the angry white men are behind," and the
reeking, dusty, begrimed horses fell into a walk.

The hour for their arrival in Pinon City was fortunate. The town was
still at supper, and in the dusk Curtis and prisoner escaped notice.
They hurried across the main street and on towards the jail, which stood
on a little knoll just outside the town.

As they drew up before the door a young man came out and stared with
inquiring gaze.

Curtis spoke first. "Are you the turnkey?"

"I'm in charge here; yes, sir."

"I am Captain Curtis, the agent. This is Cut Finger, charged with the
murder of