over to Aunt Sallie's the last
time."

"Jean, you are lazy; why didn't you mend it yourself?" Jack scolded.
"You know Aunt Ellen can't sew a bit. Isn't it dreadful that little
Frieda is the only one of us who ever touches a needle and she has no
one to show her how to sew, poor baby. Come along, I'll see what I can
do with your old skirt. Let's go in the Indian girl's room while I do my
worst, best, I mean."

Olilie had very little to tell her rescuers of her history. She could
not explain why Laska wanted her to live with her, because she had
always hated her and been unkind to her. Olilie had but one friend, a
teacher in the Indian school in the Indian village in Wind Creek valley.
The sick girl did not talk so freely before Jack, as she seemed a little
afraid of her, but she begged the girls to find her a home at one of the
ranch houses where she might earn her living, for she declared that she
would never go back to the "Crow's nest," as old Laska's hut was called.

Jack and Jean galloped swiftly over the ten miles that lay between their
ranch and the Simpson's. No one could grow tired, no matter how long the
ride, in this glorious October air in Wyoming, as clear and sparkling as
crystal. The girls forgot their difficulties, also they quite failed to
remember the languid young lady from the East who was Mrs. Simpson's
adored niece.

A mile from the Simpson ranch house, Jean stood up in her saddle and
waved a challenge to Jack. "Beat you to the veranda!" she called back,
loosening the reins on her pony's neck and giving him a light cut with
her quirt.

Jean was off like a shot before Jack could get a start. She reached the
porch several yards ahead of her cousin. But Jack was determined not to
be outclassed as a rider. Just in front of the house was a row of
hitching posts about five feet high. "Clear the track," Jack shouted.

She thrust her feet forward in their long, loose Western stirrups, threw
her body back and her pony rose in the air like a bird, straight over
the posts, and she landed at Jean's side with a small Indian war-whoop
of triumph.

A languid clap of hands from the front porch and a horrified
exclamation, made Jean's cheeks burn and Jack's grey eyes kindle.

"Buffalo Bill at his best! I congratulate you," a soft voice exclaimed.
"I wish you had more of an audience."

Jack laughed lightly. "Oh, we can do ever so much better than that, when
we try, Miss Post; perhaps if you stay out West