Kit. They are all strangers. The rest, you know--well,
none of them are here. But these will be kind, no doubt. Yet to me,
even in this dark, it seems--it seems horrible! It all comes back:
that morning when I first rode Tempest. The massacre----"

The tone of his voice startled her, and she begged at once:

"Let us go right away again. I am not afraid of the storm, nor the
darkness, and nothing can harm us if we pray to be taken care of. The
Great Spirit always hears. Let us go."

"It is too late. It's beginning to rain and that man is ordering us to
dismount, that he may put the horses in the stables. Jump down."

There were always some refugees at the Fort. Just then there were more
than ordinary; or, if all were not such, there were many passing
travellers, journeying in emigrant trains toward the unsettled west,
to make their new homes there, and these used "Uncle Sam's tavern" as
an inn of rest and refreshment.

Amid so many, therefore, small attention was paid to the arrival of
these two young people. They were furnished with a plain supper, in
the main living room of the building which seemed a big and dreary
place, and immediately afterward were dismissed to bed. Kitty was
assigned a cot among the women guests and Gaspar slept in the men's
quarters.

But neither had very comfortable thoughts, and the talk of her
dormitory neighbors kept the Sun Maid long awake. Here, as in Mercy's
cabin, the dominant subject was the reward offered for the capture of
the Indians, and a fresh fear set her trembling as one indignant
matron exclaimed:

"There's one of those pesky red-skins in this very Fort this night. He
came with that girl yonder, but I hope he won't be let to get away as
easy. The country is overrun with the Indians, and is no place for
decent white folks. They outnumber us ten to one. That's why I've got
my husband to sell out. We're on our way back East, to civilization."

"Well, if one's come here to-night, I reckon he'll be taken care of!
Massacres are more plenty than money, and some man or other'll make
out to claim the prize. What sort of Indian was he?"

"Oh, like them all. All paint and feather and wickedness. I wish
somebody'd take and hang him to the sally-port, just for an example."

This was too much for loyal Kitty Briscoe. She could no more help
springing up in defence of her friends than she could help breathing.

"You women must not talk like that! There are good Indians, and they