"Didn't want me to find who it was peeked, but I went after him, clear
down to Amos Judson's house, because I thought that was the best way, if
it was an Injun. She isn't afraid of anything else. She's the only girl
that can ride Tell Mapleson's pony, and only O'mie and Tell and I among
the boys can ride him. And she killed the big rattlesnake that nearly
had Jim Conlow, killed it with a hoe. And she can climb where no other
girl dares to, on the bluff below town toward the Hermit's Cave. But
she's just as 'fraid of an Injun! I went to hunt him, though."

"And you did just right, Phil. The only way to be safe is to go after
what makes you afraid. I guess, though, there really was nobody. It was
just Marjie's imagination, wasn't it?"

"Yes, there was, Auntie; I saw him climb up from the cliff over there
and go off down the hill after we came in."

"Why didn't you say so?" asked my aunt.

"We couldn't get him, and it would have scared Marjie," I answered.

"That's right, Phil. You are a regular Kansas boy, you are. The best of
them may claim to come from Massachusetts,"--with a touch of
pride,--"but no matter where they come from, they must learn how to be
quick-witted and brave and manly here in Kansas. It's what all boys need
to be here."

A few days later the door of our schoolroom opened and an Indian boy
strode in and seated himself on the bench beside Tell Mapleson. He was a
lad of fifteen, possibly older. His dress was of the Osage fashion and
round his neck he wore a string of elk teeth. His face was thoroughly
Indian, yet upon his features something else was written. His long black
hair was a shade too jetty and soft for an Indian's, and it grew
squarely across his forehead, suggesting the face of a French priest.
We children sat open-mouthed. Even Aunt Candace forgot herself a
moment. Bud Anderson first found his voice.

"Well, I'll thwan!" he exclaimed in sheer amazement.

Bill Mead giggled and that broke the spell.

"How do you do?" said my aunt kindly.

"How," replied the young brave.

"What is your name, and what do you want?" asked our teacher.

"Jean Pahusca. Want school. Want book--" He broke off and finished in a
jargon of French and Indian.

"Where is your home, your tepee?" queried Aunt Candace.

The Indian only shook his head. Then taking from his beads a heavy
silver cross, crudely shaped and wrought, he rose and placed it on the
table. Taking up a book at the same time he seated him