man's an Indian, Cutler. I tell you I can see his braids."

"Oh, he's rigged up Injun fashion, fust rate, sir. But them braids of
his ain't his'n. False hair."

The lieutenants passed each other the fieldglasses three times, and
glared at the lone pine and the two figures in blankets. The boy on the
ambulance was unable to pretend any longer, and leaned off his seat till
he nearly fell.

"Well," said Balwin, "I never saw anything look more like a buck Sioux.
Look at his paint. Take the glasses yourself, Cutler."

But Cutler refused. "He's like an Injun," he said. "But that's just what
he wants to be." The scout's conviction bore down their doubt.

They were persuaded. "You can't come with us, Cutler," said Powell. "You
must wait for us here."

"I know, sir; he'd spot us, sure. But it ain't right. I started this
whole business with my poker scheme at that cabin, and I ought to stay
with it clear through."

The officers went into the agency store and took down two rifles hanging
at the entrance, always ready for use. "We're going to kill a man," they
explained, and the owner was entirely satisfied. They left the rueful
Cutler inside, and proceeded to the gate of the stockade, turning there
to the right, away from the river, and following the paling round the
corner down to the farther right-hand corner. Looking from behind it,
the lone pine-tree stood near, and plain against the sky. The striped
figures lay still in their blankets, talking, with their faces to the
river. Here and there across the stream the smoke-stained peak of a
tepee showed among the green leaves.

"Did you ever see a more genuine Indian?" inquired Baldwin.

"We must let her rip now, anyhow," said Powell, and they stepped out
into the open. They walked towards the pine till it was a hundred yards
from them, and the two beneath it lay talking all the while. Balwin
covered the man with his rifle and called. The man turned his head, and
seeing the rifle, sat up in his blanket. The squaw sat up also. Again
the officer called, keeping his rifle steadily pointed, and the man
dived like a frog over the bank. Like magic his blanket had left his
limbs and painted body naked, except for the breech-clout. Balwin's
tardy bullet threw earth over the squaw, who went flapping and
screeching down the river. Balwin and Powell ran to the edge, which
dropped six abrupt feet of clay to a trail, then shelved into the swift
little stream. The red figure was makin