d deepened, and Julyman, in spite of his best
efforts, had failed to dispel it. Even his story of a race of
"hibernating" Indians had been without effect.

But Julyman did not accept defeat easily. And presently he removed the
foul pipe from his thin lips, and spat with great accuracy into the
heart of the fire.

"Bimeby she come," he said, in his low, even tones, while his black,
luminous eyes were definitely raised to the white man's face. "Oh, yes.
Bimeby she come. An' boss then him laff lak hell. Julyman know. Julyman
have much squaw. Plenty."

Steve started. For a moment he stared. Then his easy smile crept into
his steady eyes again and he nodded.

"Sure," he said. "Bimeby she come. Then I laff--like hell."

Julyman's sympathy warmed. He felt he had struck the right note. His
wide Indian face lit with an unusual smile.

"Missis, him young. Very much young," he observed profoundly. "Him lak
dance plenty--heap. It good. Very good. Bimeby winter him come. Cold lak
hell. Missis no laff. Missis not go out. Boss him by the long trail. So.
Missis him sit. Oh yes. Him sit with little pappoose. No dance. No
nothin'. Only snow an' cold--lak hell."

This time the man's effort elicited a different response. Perhaps he had
over-reached. Certainly the white man's eyes had lost the look that had
inspired the Indian. They were frowning. It was the cold frown of
displeasure. Julyman knew the look. He understood it well. So he went no
further. Instead he spat again into the fire and gave himself up to a
luxurious hate of Hervey Garstaing, the Indian Agent, whom all Indians
hated.

Julyman was only a shade removed from his original savagery. There were
times when he was not removed from savagery at all. This was such a
moment. For he abandoned himself to the silent contemplation of a vision
of the heart of the Indian Agent roasting over the fire before him. It
was stuck on the cleaning-rod of his own rifle like a piece of bread to
be toasted. Furthermore his was the hand holding the cleaning-rod. He
would willingly throw the foul heart to the camp dogs--when it was
properly cooked.

His vision was suddenly swept away by a sound which came from somewhere
along the trail in the direction of Deadwater. There was a faint,
indistinct blur of voices. There was also the rattle of wheels, and the
sharp clip of horses' hoofs upon the hard-beaten road. He instinctively
turned his head in the direction. And as he did so Steve Allenw