Efaw Kotee's head, and doubtless on the heads of all who
served him.

When Smilax approached the last man he pointed down with grim
satisfaction, saying:

"Him bust black boy's head!"

It was Jess, who would have bullied the old chief into giving up my
princess! Well, our account was closed. But of Efaw Kotee there was no
clue. I felt sure he was not among those who escaped, simply because he
could not have run so fast; and Smilax was certain he did not follow
with the chase.

Our gruesome task finished, we turned back. For the moment I wanted to
be alone, with my thoughts, my happiness, my uncertainty of Monsieur's
power of persuasion, my heaviness of spirit caused by the work behind
us. But Tommy ran up and slipped his arm through mine, saying with
exaggerated carelessness:

"I'm glad that crescendo of horrors is over--if you'll allow a kind of
musical term; but I've got music in my soul to-day."

"It's a funny time for music," I grumbled, "--except funeral marches."

"By the way, did you find out about that other funeral march?"

"No, I forgot," I confessed. "Don't bother me, Tommy; I feel like the
devil."

"I know it," he gave my arm a squeeze--for Tommy possessed that
characteristic making for a community of mind and spirit that did not
wait for explanations. "I know it," he repeated, "but you _look_ a whole
lot better--really like your old self! Now, what's the trouble? If
you're worrying about the ruins we created back there, cut it out! I'm
not bothered over the one or two I might have got! Fact is, nobody knows
which of us hit which, anyway. So what is it? I'm not asking, merely
insisting!"

So I told him pretty much everything, as one chum can to another.

"You mean she may listen to the little gezabo and go back?" he asked.

"I mean just that. She will if she thinks it has a bigger claim on her.
I know how square she is!"

"Besides being square," he said thoughtfully, "there's also something in
the make-up of woman that I've never understood: her apparent hankering
after sacrifice. When it comes to a show-down between heart and
conscience, she'll follow the conscience ten to one--if she's straight.
Look at it," he swept his arm toward the prairie, as if innumerable
instances were in sight of us. "See the sweet-faced old ladies who never
wrote 'Mrs.' before their names--not that they've missed anything, God
knows, but just look at 'em! All because some over-finicky parent didn't
approve, no do