months
after, that Eleanor recalled the look on Calamity's face as the Indian
woman heard those frenzied words. Then Mrs. Williams broke in
uncontrollable sobbing. "Leave me! Go out--all of you. Leave me
alone!"

Eleanor shut the door and led the dazed Indian children from the outer
hall. In the Library, opposite the Mission Parlor, she found old
Calamity sitting on the floor with the shawl over her head. The
half-breed woman sat peering through the shawl as Eleanor lighted the
hanging lamp. No Indian will mention the name of the dead. She
fastened her eyes on Eleanor, snakily, sinister, never shifting her
glance.

"What is it, Calamity?"

"Is dat true? Senator man he keel heem--keel leetle boy?" she asked
slowly.

Eleanor thought a moment.

"Yes, it is entirely true," she said, never heeding the import of her
words to the superstitious mind of the Indian woman.

A little hiss of breath came from the crouching form. She rose, drew
the shawl round her head and at the door, turned.

"Dey take mine," she said, "and now dey keel heem, an' white man, he
yappy--yappy--yappy; not do--not do any t'ing! He send for Mount'
P'lice, mabee no do anyt'ing unless Indian man . . . he keel." The
little hiss of breath again and a cunning mad look in the eyes.

"Go 'way Calamity! Go home to our ranch house!"

By and by, came Wayland. She knew why he had come after dark, carrying
the slender body against his shoulder. A white handkerchief had been
thrown over the face; and she saw that he held the arms tightly to hide
the fact that both had been broken in the fall. The rains had matted
the curly hair and brought a strange rose glow to the cheeks. There
again--Eleanor had to shut the doors of memory; for they had carried
him in together. The wind was not tempered to the shorn lamb; and it
is the living, not the dead, who beat against the Portals of Death.

They kept watch together, she and Wayland, in the Library across from
the closed door of the Mission. Parlor, black-eyed Indian urchins
peeping furtively from the head of the stairs till bells rang lights
out. Then silence fell, stabbed by the creak of floor, the swing of
door, the click and rustle of the cotton wood leaves outside.

There was a slight patter of rain-drip from the eaves somewhere. A
gate swung to the wind; and, from across the hall, they could hear the
driven footsteps pacing up and down the parlor. Then, the
drip,--drip,--was broken