her head and capered off. Matthews, swearing in English and
Uncapapa, tried every device he knew, and failed.

He dared not waste another minute. Quickly, he wound some grass into a
twist, lit it and waved it back and forth above his head three times.
After which, as a precaution, he took a flask from his hind-pocket and,
going from horse to horse of the string, to the hobbled three, and to
the half-dozen that were standing loose, rubbed their muzzles with the
liquor. But again he was unable to touch the "She-devil." In a fury, he
threw the empty flask at her.

From his hiding-place beside the barracks, the Indian in squaw's dress
saw the signal-torch of the interpreter. At once, he sneaked from side
to side to listen. Then he took a wisp of grass, bound round it a strip
of oily cloth and, kneeling beside the bundle farthest from the river,
set a match to it. Instantly flames leaped up. He ran to other
grass-piles, lighting them one by one.

The next moment, an amazed sentry, who was pacing his beat by the
scouts' huts, saw the growing bonfires and called out in alarm to
another. Before the latter could reply the end of the barracks was
burning. Both sentries fired their guns. The sergeant of the guard
answered with revolver shots. The Gatlings spoke from the lookouts. A
trumpet shrilled the fire-alarm. From the sutler's sounded the clang of
the mess-gong.

In the midst of the tumult, one spot--the stockade--kept strangely
quiet. Its guards were collected at the sliding-panel, from where, not
daring to leave, they watched the growing blaze. So intent were they
upon the sight that they took no heed of their prisoners. Therefore, no
one knew or hindered when the Indian braves, led by Standing Buffalo,
and noiseless as shadows, filed into Brown Mink's wickie-up, crawled
through the breach in the log wall, and sped away into the shielding
dark.

Behind, the squaws and children were gathered, with the Indian girl
walking boldly among them. Of a sudden they parted. From under the
shingle roof there was a sound of struggling--a thump, as a body hit the
ground--an old woman's squeal of rage. Then, into the faint glare
reflected from the fire, came a stooping figure in squaw's dress, that
sped through the scattering crowd, shot into Brown Mink's tent--and was
gone.

Across the prairie, Matthews was following after the flighty cayuse; not
trying to catch her, only striving to get her out of the way. "Buckskin"
was wilful