teen
cents and going up."

At four o'clock Kitsap was once more at the telephone, and received a
message from the cashier which sent his heart pounding in his throat for
very enthusiasm.

[Illustration: _Copyrighted by E. S. Curtis, Seattle_

"KITSAP, THE CLERK, DONNED THE TRIBAL FINERY OF HIS ANCESTORS"]

"I have sent you an important letter by express on the three o'clock
train," said the cashier. "Get it and read what I have written. Stay as
long as you need to, but smash that pool, and teach Lamson not to lie
about the Elliott Bay National."

Then Kitsap waited for the train, secured his express package, and
opened it. It contained a letter from Lamson to the bank--a letter that
was ammunition for the Indian--and instructions to make certain use of
it.

He could make no more progress indirectly; he must face the raiders, or
his own people would doubt him. He must seek out Lamson, and standing in
front of that white man, the Indian must throw back into his teeth that
lie about the bank. The warm red blood in him yearned for a clash and a
tussle. He would go to the store to spend the evening. If a collision
with the fourteen-cent raiders was to be effected anywhere, the store
would afford it.

To the store that night came Lamson and the St. Louis buyers, all in
evil mood. Kitsap's news had completely arrested the effect of their
pessimistic talk. No rancher would sell at fourteen cents with a bank's
messenger rioting over the valley quoting hops in Liverpool at eighteen
cents. Indeed, those who had already contracted to sell were grumbling,
and many of them came to the store that night, eager to hear the truth
of a market which had been misrepresented to them. These men were
listening to Kitsap, whose words put them in a very sullen temper, when
Lamson and the three buyers entered.

"So you're the Injun who's been going around bulling the market,"
shouted Lamson, his voice keyed high with temper. He stepped quickly
into the crowd of ranchers about Kitsap, conscious that he must rout the
Indian or see the end of the pool.

The young Indian faced the irate rancher and looked him coolly up and
down. This was Lamson; the heaviest owner of land in the valley. This
was the white man who had lied about the Elliott Bay National. The
meeting for which he had hoped had come. The Indian drew a deep breath
of sheer delight. Then, in a clear, ringing tone, he returned the white
man's fire:

"So you are the rancher wh