u take entirely too many liberties wid a
Springvale boy what's knowed you too darned long already."

We lifted Jean, and keeping him before us we hurried him into the
presence of the fair-haired commander to whom we told our story, failing
not to report on the incident witnessed by O'mie on the river bank two
nights before, when Jean sent his murdered father's body into the waters
below him.

"And so that French renegade is dead, is he," Custer mused, never
lifting his eyes from the ground. He had heard us through without query
or comment, until now. "I knew him well. First as a Missionary priest to
the Osages. He was a fine man then, but the Plains made a devil of him;
and he deserved what he got, no doubt.

"Now, as to this half-breed, why the devil didn't you kill him when you
had the chance? Dead Indians tell no tales; but the holy Church and the
United States Government listen to what the live ones tell. You could
have saved me any amount of trouble, you infernal fool."

I stood up before the General. There was as great a contrast in our
appearance as in our rank. The slight, dapper little commander in full
official dress and perfect military bearing looked sternly up at the
huge, rough private with his torn, bloody clothing and lacerated hands.
Custer's yellow locks had just been neatly brushed. My own dark hair,
uncut for months, hung in a curly mass thrown back from my scarred
face.

I gave him a courteous, military salute. Then standing up to my full
height, and looking steadily down at the slender, graceful man before
me, I said:

"I may be a fool, General, but I am a soldier, not a murderer."

Custer made no reply for a time.

He sat down and, turning toward Jean Pahusca, he studied the young
half-breed carefully. Then he said briefly,

"You may go now."

We saluted and passed from his tent. Outside we had gone only a few
steps, when the General overtook us.

"Baronet," he said, "you did right. You are a soldier, the kind that
will yet save the Plains."

He turned and entered his tent again.

"Golly!" O'mie whistled softly. "It's me that thinks Jean Pahusca, son
av whoever his father may be, 's got to the last and worst piece av his
journey. I'm glad you didn't kill him, Phil. You're claner 'n ever in my
eyes."

We strolled away together in the soft evening shadows, silent for a
time.

"Tell me, O'mie," I said at last, "how you happened to find me up there
two hours ago?"

"I was traili