king were
too worldly for that grave time. "I know now," she said, "how that poor
woman felt whose little boy was took by the Kiowas years ago out on the
West Prairie. They said she did jump into the river. Anyhow, she
disappeared."

"Did you know her or her husband?" Father Le Claire asked quietly.

"Yes, in a way," Dollie replied. "He was a big, fine-looking man built
some like you, an' dark. He was a Frenchman. She was a little,
small-boned woman. I saw her in the 'Last Chance' store the day she got
here from the East. She was fair and had red hair, I should say; but
they said the woman that drowned herself was a black-haired French
woman. She didn't look French to me. She lived in that little cabin up
around the bend toward Red Range, poor dear! That cabin's always been
haunted, they say."

"Was she never heard of again?" the priest went on. We thought he was
keeping Dollie's mind off O'mie.

"Ner him neither. He cut out west toward Santy Fee with some Mexican
traders goin' home from Westport. I heard he left 'em at Pawnee Rock,
where they had a regular battle with the Kiowas; some thought he might
have been killed by the Kiowas, and others by the Mexicans. Anyhow, he
never was heard of in Springvale no more."

"Mrs. Gentry," Le Claire asked abruptly, "where did you find O'mie?"

"Why, we've had him so long I forget we never hadn't him." Dollie seemed
confused, for O'mie was a part of her life. "He was brought up here from
the South by a missionary. Seems to me he found the little feller (he
was only five years old) trudgin' off alone, an' sayin' he wouldn't stay
at the Mission 'cause there was Injuns there. Said the Injuns killed his
father, an' he kicked an' squalled till the missionary just brought him
up here. He was on his way to St. Mary's, up on the Kaw, an' he was
takin' the little one on with him. He stopped here with O'mie an' the
little feller was hungry--"

"And you fed him; naked, and you clothed him," the priest added
reverently.

"Poor O'mie!" and Dollie made a dive for the kitchen to weep out her
grief alone.

It seemed to settle upon Springvale that O'mie was lost; had been
overcome in some way by the murderous raiders who had infested our town.

In sheer weariness and hopelessness I fell on my bed, that night, and
sleep, the "sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care," fell upon
me. Just at daybreak I woke with a start. I had not dreamed once all
night, but now, wide awake, with