little golden curls from
babies' heads. You an' me may live to see it, an' kill the Injun that
does it, yit. Now kape quiet. In this draw aforesaid, just like a rid
granite gravestone sat a rid granite Injun, 'a good Injun,' mind you. In
his hands was trailin' a broken wreath of pink blossoms, an' near as an
Injun can, an' a Frenchman can't, he was lovin' 'em fondly. My
appearance, unannounced by me footman, disconcerted him extramely. He
rose up an' he looked a mile tall. They moved some clouds over a little
fur his head up there," pointing toward the deep blue April sky where
white cumulus clouds were heaped, "an' his eyes was one blisterin'
grief, an' blazin' hate. He walks off proud an' erect, but some like a
wounded bird too. But mostly and importantly, remember, and renew your
watchfulness. It's hate an' a bad Injun now. Mark my words. The 'good
Injun' went out last night wid the witherin' of them pink flowers lyin'
limp in his cruel brown hands."

"But whose flower wreath could it have been?" I asked carelessly.

"O, phwat difference! Just some silly girl braided 'em up to look sweet
for some silly boy. An' maybe he kissed her fur it. I dunno. Annyhow she
lost this bauble, an' looking round I found it on the little knoll where
maybe she sat to do her flower wreathin'."

He held up an old-fashioned double silver scarf-pin, the two pins held
together by a short silver chain, such as shawls were fastened with in
those days. Marjie had had the pin in the light scarf she carried on her
arm. It must have slipped out when she laid the scarf beside her and sat
down to make the wreath. I took the pin from O'mie's hand, my mind clear
now as to what had frightened the ponies. A new anxiety grew up from
that moment. The "good Indian" was passing. And yet I was young and
joyously happy that day, and I did not feel the presence of danger then.

The early May rains following that April were such as we had never known
in Kansas before. The Neosho became bank-full; then it spread out over
the bottom lands, flooding the wooded valley, creeping up and up towards
the bluffs. It raced in a torrent now, and the song of its rippling over
stony ways was changed to the roar of many waters, rushing headlong down
the valley. On the south of us Fingal's Creek was impassable. Every
draw was brimming over, and the smaller streams became rivers. All these
streams found their way to the Neosho and gave it impetus to
destroy--which it did, t