d with a last flare of command.

"Make your medicine!" he said. "Why are the white men not blind? Is the
medicine bad to-day?" And he whipped his son's horse to the right, and
to the left he slashed the horse of Two Whistles, and, whirling the
leather quirt, drove them cowed before him and out of the stream, with
never a look or word to the white men. He crossed the sandy margin, and
as a man drives steers to the corral, striking spurs to his horse and
following the frightened animals close when they would twist aside, so
did old Pounded Meat herd his son down the valley.

"Useful old man," remarked Stirling; "and brings up his children
carefully. Let's get these prisoners along."

"How rural the river looks now!" Haines said, as they left the deserted
bank.

So the Sioux went home in peace, the lieutenants, with their command of
twenty, returned to the post, and all white people felt much obliged to
Pounded Meat for his act of timely parental discipline--all except one
white person.

Sol Kinney sauntered into the agency store one evening. "I want ten
pounds of sugar," said he, "and navy plug as usual. And say, I'll take
another bottle of the Seltzer fizz salts. Since I quit whiskey," he
explained, "my liver's poorly."

He returned with his purchase to his cabin, and set a lamp in the
window. Presently the door opened noiselessly, and Cheschapah came in.

"Maybe you got that now?" he said, in English.

The interpreter fumbled among bottles of liniment and vaseline, and from
among these household remedies brought the blue one he had just bought.
Cheschapah watched him like a child, following his steps round the
cabin. Kinney tore a half-page from an old Sunday _World_, and poured a
little heap of salts into it. The Indian touched the heap timidly with
his finger. "Maybe no good," he suggested.

"Heap good!" said the interpreter, throwing a pinch into a glass. When
Cheschapah saw the water effervesce, he folded his newspaper with the
salt into a tight lump, stuck the talisman into his clothes, and
departed, leaving Mr. Kinney well content. He was doing his best to
nourish the sinews of war, for business in the country was
discouragingly slack.

Now the Crows were a tribe that had never warred with us, but only with
other tribes; they had been valiant enough to steal our cattle, but
sufficiently discreet to stop there; and Kinney realized that he had
uphill work before him. His dearest hopes hung upon Cheschapa