dirt on 'em. I'll
swar' to goodness, as the sayin' is, they ain't never see no water
sence they was christened, if they ever was christened, which I don't
believe no gospel preacher would ever so demean himself. An' as fer
soap, say, they couldn't even spell it if you was to hand 'em the
whole soap fact'ry literature of a fi'-cent daily noos-sheet. They're
jest ter'ble, an' it seems to me we sure need a reg'ment o' United
States Cavalry settin' around on horses an' field guns to pertect us,
ef we're to farm this one-hossed layout. They're 'bad men,' mum,
miss--which I made a mistake ag'in--that's wot they are. I've read
about 'em in the fi'-cent comics, so I sure know 'em when I see 'em.
You can't never make no mistake. They're jest goin' to shoot us all up
to glory, an' they'll dance around on our corpses, same as if they was
nuthin', nor no account anyways."

In spite of her recent shock Joan found herself smiling at the strange
mixture of fear and anger in the old woman's manner. But she felt it
necessary to check her flow of wild accusations. She guessed easily
enough who the men were that were approaching the house, but their
object remained a mystery.

"You're hasty. You mustn't judge these people by their appearance.
They're----"

But the feverish tongue was promptly set clacking again.

"An' wot, I asks, is they to be judged by if not by wot they are? They
jest come along a-yowlin', an' a-shootin' off'n their guns an' things,
same as they allus do when they's on the war-path. Scalps, that's wot
they's after. Scalps, no more an' no less. An' to think o' me at my
time o' life a-fallin' a prey to Injuns, as you might say. Oh, if on'y
my pore George D. Ransford was alive! He'd 'a' give 'em scalps. He was
a man, sure, even though he did set around playin' poker all night
when I was in labor with my twins. He was a great fighter was George
D.--as the marks on my body ken show to this very day."

At that instant there was a terrific knocking at the door which opened
directly into the parlor in which the waiting women were standing, and
the farm-wife jumped and staggered back, and, finally, collapsed into
an adjacent chair.

"Sakes on us," she cried, her fat face turning a sort of pea-green,
"if only my pore George D.----"

But Joan's patience could stand no more.

"For goodness' sake go back to your kitchen, you absurd creature. I'll
see to the matter. I----"

But the old woman wobbled to her feet almost w