llow hair. He thought he was at Springvale and we were in the Deep
Hole below the Hermit's Cave. He gripped my hand tightly and begged me
not to let him go down. It did not last long. He soon looked up and
smiled.

"I'm thafe," he lisped. "Your turn, now, Phil."

The soldiers had fallen back and left us two together. John Mac and Reed
had hastened to the cantonment for help, but Pete knew best. It was
useless. Even now, after the lapse of nearly forty years, the sorrow of
that day lies heavy on me. "Accidental death" the official record was
made, and there was no need to change it, when we knew better.

That evening O'mie and I sat together in the shadowy twilight. There was
just a hint of spring in the balmy air, and we breathed deeply,
realizing, as never before, how easy a thing it is to cut off the
breath of life. We talked of Bud in gentle tones, and then O'mie said:
"Lem me tell you somethin', Phil. I was over among the Arapahoes this
afternoon, an' I saw a man, just a glimpse was all; but you never see a
face so like Father Le Claire's in your life. It couldn't be nobody else
but that praist; and yet, it couldn't be him, nather."

"Why, O'mie?" I asked.

"It was an evil-soaked face. And yet it was fine-lookin'. It was just
like Father Le Claire turned bad."

"Maybe it was Father Le Claire himself turned bad," I said. "I saw the
same man up on the Arickaree, voice and all. Men sometimes lead double
lives. I never thought that of him. But who is this shadow of Jean
Pahusca's--a priest in civilization, a renegade on the Plains? Not only
the face and voice of the man I saw, but his gait, the set of his
shoulders, all were Le Claire to a wrinkle."

"Phil, it couldn't have been him in September. The praist was at
Springvale then, and he went out on Dever's stage white and sick,
hurrying to Kansas City. Oh, begorra, there's a few extry folks more 'n I
can use in this world, annyhow."

We sat in silence a few minutes, the shadow of the bowlder concealing
us. I was just about to rise when two men came soft-footed out of the
darkness from beyond the cliff. Passing near us they made their way
along the little stream toward the river. They were talking in low tones
and we caught only a sentence or two.

"When are you going to leave?" It was Jean Pahusca's voice.

"Not till I get ready."

The tone had that rich softness I heard so often when Father Le Claire
chatted with our gang of boys in Springvale, but there