m at some time or other. Sober, he is a devil--half Indian, half
French, and wholly fiendish. Neither he nor his father has any property.
I used my influence to prevent it. I would do it again. Jean Le Claire
has forfeited all claims to inheritance. So have I. Among the Indians he
is a renegade. I am only a missionary priest trying as I may to atone
for my own sins and for the sins of my father's son, my twin brother.
That, gentlemen, is all I can say."

"We are grateful to you, Le Claire," John Baronet said. "Mapleson said
before you began that your word would show us what to do. It has shown
us. It is now time, when some deeds long past their due, must be
requited." He turned to Tell sitting defiantly there casting mentally in
every direction for some legal hook, some cunning turn, by which to win
victory away from defeat.

"Tell Mapleson, the hour has come for us to settle more than a property
claim between an Irish orphan and a half-breed Kiowa. And now, if it was
wise to settle the other matter out of court, it will be a hundred times
safer to settle this here this afternoon. You have grown prosperous in
Springvale. In so far as you have done it honestly, I rejoice. You know
yourself that I have more than once proved my sincerity by turning
business your way, that I could as easily have put elsewhere."

Tell did know, and with something of Southern politeness, he nodded
assent.

"You are here now to settle with me or to go before my court for some
counts you must meet. You have been the headpiece for all the evil-doing
that has wrecked the welfare of Springvale and that has injured
reputation, brought lasting sorrow, even cost the life of many citizens.
Sooner or later the man who does that meets his own crimes face to face,
and their ugly powers break loose on him."

"What do you mean?" Tell's voice was suppressed, and his face was livid.

"I mean first: you with Dick Yeager and others, later in Quantrill's
band, in May of 1863 planned the destruction of this town by mob
violence. The houses were to be burned, every Union man was to be
murdered with his wife and children, except such as the Kiowa and
Comanche Indians chose to spare. My own son was singled out as the
choicest of your victims. Little O'mie, for your own selfish ends, was
not to be spared; and Marjory Whately, just blooming into womanhood, you
gave to Jean Pahusca as his booty. Your plan failed, partly through the
efforts of this good man here,