he, still on her knees beside the
wall, gained his silence by one supplicating gesture. There was a sleepy,
fretful cry from the room beyond--the noise had roused one of the children.

"Sh-sh, dear," she called. "It's only a bad dream. Go to sleep again;
mother is here."

Through the warped door came sounds of the whispering voices without,
drowned by the shrieking bellow of the cattle. There was not a breath of
air in the suffocating room. Jim bent towards Alida:

"I'm goin out to 'em. They'll do it square, over on the cotton-woods; this
rumpus'll only wake the kids."

But she shook her head imploringly, putting her finger to her lips as a
sign that he was not to speak, and he had not the heart to refuse, though
knowing that she made a desperate situation worse.

"Gentlemen"--she spoke in a low, distinct voice--"Jim ain't here. He's been
away from home five days. There's no one here but me and the children;
you've woke them up and frightened them by pounding on the door. I ask you
to go away."

"If he ain't in there, will you let us search the house?" It was Henderson
that spoke, Henderson, foreman of the "XXX" outfit.

"I can't have them frightened; please take my word and go away."

"Whas er matter, muvvy?" called Judith, sleepily. Young Jim was by this
time crying lustily. Only Topeka said nothing. With the precocity of a
frontier child, she half realized the truth. She tried to comfort little
Jim, though her teeth chattered in fear and she felt cold in the hot,
still room. Then Judith called out, "Make papa send them away."

"Your papa ain't here, Judith." But the fight had all gone out of Alida's
voice; it was the groan of an animal in a trap.

"Where's papa gone to?"

"Sh-sh, Judith! Topeka, keep your sister quiet."

It was absolutely still, within and without, for a full minute. Then Alida
heard the shoving of shoulders against the door. Once, twice, thrice the
lock resisted them. The brown bureau spun across the room like a child's
toy. The lynchers, bursting in, saw Alida with her arms around Jim. When
the last hope had gone it was instinct with her to protect him with her
own body.

"Go into the kids, old girl, this is no place for you." And there was that
in his voice that made her obey.

Something of the glory of old Chief Flying Hawk, riding to battle, was in
the face of his grandson.

"Remember, the children ain't to know," he said to his wife; and to the
lynchers, "Gentlemen, I'm ready.