that ripple of ground made by the ring of the Osage's
tepee in the years gone by. Marjie deftly swerved her pony to the south
and skirted that little ridge of ground with a graceful curve, as though
this were a mere racing game and not a life-and-death ride. Jean's horse
plunged at the tepee ring, leaped to the little hollow beyond it,
stumbled and fell, and, pellmell, like a stampede of cattle, we were
upon him.

I never could understand how Dave Mead headed the crowd back and kept
the whole mass from piling up on the fallen Indian and those nearest to
him. Nor do I understand why some of us were not crushed or kicked out
of life in that _melee_ of ponies and riders struggling madly together.
What I do know is that Bud Anderson, who was not thrown from his horse,
caught Jean's pony by the bridle and dragged it clear of the mass. It
was O'mie's quick hand that wrested that murderous knife from the
Indian's grasp, and it was my strong arm that held him with a grip of
iron. The shock sobered him instantly. He struggled a moment, and then
the cunning that always deceived us gained control. The Indian spirit
vanished, and with something masterful in his manner he relaxed all
effort. Lifting his eyes to mine with no trace of resentment in their
impenetrable depths, he said evenly:

"Let me go. I was drunk. I was fool."

"Let him go, Phil. He did act kinder drunk," Bill Mead urged, and I
loosed my hold. I knew instinctively that we were safe now, as I knew
also that this submission of Jean Pahusca's must be paid for later with
heavy interest by somebody.

"Here'th your horth; s'pothe you thkite," lisped Bud Anderson.

Jean sprang upon his pony and dashed off. We watched him ride away down
the long slope. In a few moments another horseman joined him, and they
took the trail toward the Kaw reservation. It was Father Le Claire
riding with the Indian into the gathering shadows of the south.

I turned to Marjie standing beside me. Her big brown eyes were luminous
with tears, and her face was as white as my mother's face was on the day
the sea left its burden on the Rockport sands. It was hate that made
Jean Pahusca veil his countenance for me a moment before. Something of
which hate can never know made me look down at her calmly. O'mie's hand
was on my shoulder and his eyes were on us both. There was a quaint
approval in his glance toward me. He knew the self-control I needed
then.

"Phil saved you, Marjie," Mary Gentry ex