n inarticulate cry, and sprang away down the slope to his sack and
blanket. Seizing them, he made for the level ground north of the
barracks, descended to the ice, swiftly crossed and dragged the fuel up
to the cottonwoods. Then he started down the river, taking long leaps.

The upper part of the improvised sleigh that was tilting its way across
the drifts like a skiff on angry water, was the green box of an ordinary
farm-wagon, set on runners. The wheels of the vehicle lay on some hay in
the rear of the box. On the broad wooden seat was a man, facing rearward
to get the wind at his back. He was almost concealed by quilts, his arms
being wrapped close to his body, and the milk-white horse was taking his
leisurely way unguided. Above the man, and nailed so loosely to the
wagon-seat that it wavered a little from side to side and kept up a
squeaking, was a tall board cross, rude and unpainted.

When he came close to the sleigh, Squaw Charley caught the sound of
singing, and stopped. The traveller was comforting his lonely way with a
sacred hymn, the words of which, scattered by the wind, reached the
Indian in broken, but martial, phrases.

"_Onward, Christian soldiers,
Marching ... war,
... the cross of Jesus
... on before._"

Again Squaw Charley spurred himself into long leaps. And behind Shanty
Town, on the open prairie, he brought the horse to a halt.

Once more he gave his wordless cry--a cry like the shrill hail of a
mute. It brought the man face about. Another second, answering, he stood
up, shook off the quilts to free his arms, reached down and caught the
pariah to his breast.

Tall and spare, he was, and aged; over his shoulders flowed long, white
hair; a beard as white fell to his waist; his sharp eyes were shaded by
heavy brows; he wore a coat of coarse cloth that touched his feet, and
about his head was wound a nubia; as, with face upraised, he embraced
the Indian, he was a stately, venerable figure.

"God be praised!" he said over and over. Then he held Squaw Charley away
from him a moment to look him up and down. "I feared some harm had come
to you--that your people had behaved so cruelly to you that you had
died. But you are well. Yet how thin! Ah! I am so glad to see you once
more!"

He held him close again, murmuring a blessing. When he released him, it
was to make room for him on the seat, and wrap him up in a thick, soft
quilt. All the while the benevolent old face was