was an insolence
in it impossible to the priest. O'mie squeezed my hand in the dark and
rising quickly he followed them down the stream. The boy never did know
what fear meant. They were soon lost in the darkness and I waited for
O'mie's return. He came presently, running swiftly and careless of the
noise he made. Beyond, I heard the feet of a horse in a gallop, a sound
the bluff soon shut off.

"Come, Phil, let's get into camp double quick for the love av all the
saints."

Inside the cantonment we stopped for breath, and as soon as we could be
alone, O'mie explained.

"Whoiver that man with Jean was, he's a 'was' now for good. Jean fixed
him."

"Tell me, O'mie, what's he done?" I asked eagerly.

"They seemed to be quarrellin'. I heard Jean say, 'You can't get off too
quick; Satanta has got men hired to scalp you; now take my word.' An'
the Le Claire one laughed, oh, hateful as anything could be, and says,
'I'm not afraid of Satanta. He's a prisoner.' Bedad! but his voice is
like the praist's. They're too much alike to be two and too different
somehow to be one. But Phil, d'ye know that in the rumpus av Custer's
wid Black Kittle, Jean stole old Satanta's youngest wife and made off
wid her, and wid his customary cussedness let her freeze to death in
them awful storms. Now he's layin' the crime on this praist-renegade and
trying to git the Kiowas to scalp the holy villain. That's the row as I
made it out between 'em. They quarrelled wid each other quite fierce,
and the Imitation says, 'You are Satanta's tool yourself'; and Jean said
somethin' I couldn't hear. Then the Imitation struck at him. It was
dark, but I heard a groan and something like the big man went plunk into
the river. Then Jean made a dash by me, and he's on a horse now, and a
mile beyont the South Pole by this time. 'Tain't no pony, I bet you, but
a big cavalry horse he's stole. He put a knife into what went into the
river, so it won't come out. That Imitation isn't Le Claire, but nather
is he anybody else now. Phil, d'ye reckon this will iver be a dacent
civilized country? D'ye reckon these valleys will iver have orchards and
cornfields and church steeples and schoolhouses in 'em, and little
homes, wid children playin' round 'em not afraid av their lives?"

"I don't know," I answered, "but orchards and cornfields and church
steeples and schoolhouses and little homes with children unafraid, have
been creeping across America for a hundred years and mo