him over a girl. The
blood of Lone Wolf cried aloud for vengeance, and the agent should not
be permitted to harbor or conceal his slayer. "You've got no time to
lose," said Boynton, who had kept his scouts on the alert. "You should
arrest that old villain at once or he'll stir the whole reservation into
mutiny." The agent thought he could accomplish more by seeing him and
having a talk. "Indians are always ready for a talk," said he. "I'll
take Mr. Davies and a couple of men just for appearance's sake and ride
right over to the village. He's at Kills Asleep's now."

Boynton argued, but the agent was afraid to adopt the only course an
Indian respects,--prompt and forceful measures. "Talk" means to him
delay, compromise, confession of weakness. "Well, if you must palaver,"
said Boynton, finally, "take me along. I've had more to do with those
beggars than Davies, and," he added to himself, "I'll make it possible
to nab that fellow."

A most impressive scene was that which met the eyes of the little party
as they rode to the village across the frozen stream. The moon was
shining almost at full in a clear and cloudless sky. The neighboring
slopes, the distant ridge, the broad level of the valley, all blanketed
in glistening snow. Half a mile away down-stream in one dark cluster of
jagged-topped cones lay the village of Red Dog's people. Away up-stream
a long mile, black against the westward slope, the corral and
storehouses, the school and office and quarters of the agency, the
watch-lights twinkling like the stars above. Close at hand, loosely
huddled along the bank, the grimy, smoke-stained lodges of Kills
Asleep's sullen band, and in their midst, surrounded at respectful
distance by a squatted semicircle of old men and braves, all muffled in
their blankets, and by an outer rim of hags and crones and young squaws
and children and snarling dogs and shaggy ponies, there with trailing
war-bonnet and decked with paint and barbaric finery, his robe cast
aside,--there like an orator of old stood the Indian chief in the heat
of his impassioned appeal. All eyes were upon him, all ears drinking in
his words. Guttural grunts of approval rewarded each resounding period.
"You're too late," muttered Boynton. "He's been getting in his work to
good effect. You should have arrested him an hour ago."

The agent reined in his panting horse and looked and listened. "He won't
talk to me now, I suppose. It would be an affront to his dignity