the ground so that no reflection should betray my
movements. Then I remembered I had forgotten Louis Laplante's saddle.
Rising, I dived back to the tepee for it and waited for the dogs to
quiet before coming out again. That alert canine had set up a duet with
a neighboring brute of like restless instincts and the two seemed to
promise an endless chorus. As I live, I could have sworn that Louis
Laplante laughed in his sleep at my dilemma; but Louis was of the sort
to laugh in the face of death itself. A man flew from a lodge and
dealing out stout blows quickly silenced the vicious curs; but I had to
let time lapse for the man to go to sleep before I could venture out.

Once more, chirp of cricket, croak of frog and the rush of waters
through the valley were the only sounds, and I darted across to the camp
shadow. Lying flat, I began to crawl cautiously and laboriously towards
my horses. One gave a startled snort as I approached and this set the
dogs going again. I lay motionless in the grass till all was quiet and
then crept gently round to the far side of my favorite horse and caught
his halter strap lest he should whinny, or start away. I drew erect
directly opposite his shoulders, so that I could not be seen from the
lodges and unhobbling his feet, led him into the concealment of a group
of ponies and had the saddle on in a trice. To get the horse to the rear
of Miriam's tent was no easy matter. I paced my steps so deftly with the
broncho's and let him munch grass so often, the most watchful Indian
could not have detected a man on the far side of the horse, directing
every move. Behind the Sioux lodge, the earth sloped abruptly away, bare
and precipitous; and I left the horse below and clambered up the steep
to the white wall of Miriam's tent. Once the dogs threatened to create a
disturbance, but a man quieted them, and with gratitude I recognized the
voice of Laplante.

Three times I tapped on the canvas but there was no response. I put my
arm under the tent and rapped on the ground. Why did she not signal? Was
the Sioux squaw from the other lodge listening? I could hear nothing but
the tossings of the child.

"Miriam," I called, shoving my arm forward and feeling out blindly.

Thereupon, a woman's hand grasped mine and thrust it out, while a voice
so low it might have been the night breeze, came to my ear--"We are
watched."

Watched? What did it matter if we were? Had I not dared all? Must not
she do the same?