on which his
blonde eyebrows failed to show; but he summoned a look that was as near
to a scowl as possible. "Look a-here, gran'pa," he said, "d' _you_ think
I'm goin' t' let you sponge offen my frien's? Not by a long shot! Hain't
I come all the way fr'm Dodge City t' keep th' redskins fr'm takin' your
scalp? What _more_ d' y' want?" He gave a laugh in which there was no
humour, disclosing small teeth, ranged close, and like the first set of
a child's.

David Bond did not quail. "You have accepted my hospitality for a
month," he said. "I ask nothing that is not justly mine."

Matthews snapped his fingers derisively. "We can't have you here t'
snoop an' spy," he declared. "Git!" As he turned to enter the shanty, he
came face to face with the Indian. "What's this?" Then, noting the squaw
skirt, "Gran'pa, who's your lady frien'?"

Hate flashed across the pariah's face, like forked lightning on a dark
sky.

"One of Sitting Bull's warriors," answered David Bond; "and a good man."

"Uncapapa, eh?" said Matthews. "I savvy their lingo." He plucked at
Squaw Charley's dress. "Our warrior wears fine garments," he jeered,
speaking in the Indian tongue. Then, with another laugh, he followed his
brother into the shanty and banged the door.

David Bond took his horse's bridle. "We must find hospitality elsewhere,
Shadrach," he said resignedly. And he headed the pung up the river. As
he got back into the wagon-box, he looked round for Squaw Charley.

The pariah was standing close to the shanty, his head held forward, as
if he were watching to spring, his hands opening and clenching angrily.

"Charles!" pleaded the old man, reproachfully. "Remember--do good to
them that wish you evil, and love them that hate."

The Indian dropped his arm meekly and shuffled over to the pung. But
when David Bond again drew him on to the seat, his lips moved silently,
and until the cut was reached and Shadrach pulled them out upon the
prairie once more, he continued to glower back at the line of saloons.

"It will be a terrible night," the other said, as they came to a
standstill beside the cottonwoods. "It is getting late. I suppose I must
try to cross the river."

The pariah was recalled from his backward glances. Rising, he extended
an arm to direct David Bond's attention. And the old man, rising also,
made out the squat shack of the Lancasters, almost hidden from sight by
drifts. With a fervent prayer of thanksgiving, he touched up Shadrac