re, with the mountains that circled about him as his
background. Sylvia Morgan was not among the listeners. Usually she
enjoyed these speeches in the evening, with the crowds, the enthusiasm,
and the encircling darkness. But to-night she would not come, nor would
she tell the reason to Harley or any of his friends. She merely said
that she wished to stay in her room at the hotel.

The audience was quiet and attentive, and Harley noticed here and there
on the outskirts the dark faces of the Indians. They interested him so
much that he left the platform presently to watch them. He was wondering
if they had any conception at all of Jimmy Grayson's words or of a
Presidential campaign. Nor did he gain any knowledge by his examination.
They listened gravely, and their faces were without expression.

The nearest of them all to the stand Harley recognized as the old chief,
Flying Cloud, whom Walker had kicked off the sidewalk. He seemed to have
recovered physical command of himself, and stood erect. There was a red
feather in his felt hat, and a shawl in brilliant stripes was drawn
across his shoulders.

The candidate spoke in a specially happy vein that night, and the
background of the mountains added impressiveness to his words. To
Harley, again the analyst, and seeking to put himself in the Indian's
place, there was a rhythm and power in what Jimmy Grayson said, although
he, as an Indian, might not understand a word. He could interpret it as
a chant of battle or victory, and such, he had no doubt, was the view of
Flying Cloud.

The chief, so Harley judged, was still half under the influence of
drink, but he was paying close attention to the speaker, and the
correspondent at last saw in his eyes what he took to be the stir of
some emotion. It was a light, as of memories of his own triumphs, and
the chief's figure began to sway gently to the music of Jimmy Grayson's
voice. They had built a bonfire near the speaker's stand, and by its
flare Harley clearly saw old Flying Cloud smile.

Hobart came up at that moment, and, Harley pointed out to him the
transformation in the old chief's appearance. Hobart's opinion agreed
with Harley's.

"It's a battle-song that Flying Cloud is hearing," he said. "It's Jimmy
Grayson that's stirring him up, though maybe the old fellow doesn't
understand it that way."

The speeches ended after a while, and the people began to leave.
Presently only a few were left in the square, and among them