ce," Jean smiled back at her; and his own face was
transfigured for the instant, as his still black eyes followed her. The
blood in my veins turned to fire at that look. Our eyes met and for one
long moment we gazed steadily at each other. As I turned away I saw
Lettie Conlow watching us both, and I knew instinctively that she and
Jean Pahusca would sometime join forces against me.

"Well, if you lassies ain't a sight good for sore eyes, I'll never tell
it," Cam shouted heartily, squinting up at the girls with his
good-natured glance. "You're cool as October an' twicet as sweet an'
fine. Go in and let Dollie give you some hot berry pie."

"To cool 'em off," O'mie whispered in my ear. "Nothin' so coolin' as a
hot berry pie in July. Let's you and me go to the creek an' thaw out."

That evening Jean Pahusca found the jug supposed to be locked in
Conlow's chest of tools inside his shop. I had found where that red
forge light came from, and had watched it from my window many a night.
When it winked and blinked, I knew somebody inside the shop was passing
between it and the line of the chink. I did not speak of it. I was never
accused of telling all I knew. My father often said I would make a good
witness for my attorney in a suit at law.

Among the Indians who had come for their stipend on this annuity day was
a strong young Osage called Hard Rope, who always had a roll of money
when he went out of town. I remember that night my father did not come
home until very late; and when Aunt Candace asked him if there was
anything the matter, I heard him answer carelessly:

"Oh, no. I've been looking after a young Osage they call Hard Rope, who
needed me."

I was sleepy, and forgot all about his words then. Long afterwards I had
good reason for knowing through this same Hard Rope, how well an Indian
can remember a kindness. He never came to Springvale again. And when I
next saw him I had forgotten that I had ever known him before. However,
I had seen the blinking red glare down the slope that evening and I knew
something was going on. Anyhow, Jean Pahusca, crazed with drink, had
stolen Tell Mapleson's pony and created a reign of terror in the street
until he disappeared down the trail to the southwest.

"It's a wonder old Tell doesn't shoot that Injun," Irving Whately
remarked to a group in his store. "He's quick enough with firearms."

"Well," said Cam Gentry, squinting across the counter with his
shortsighted eyes, "there'