d. But after all he did not go. They were late
in getting started that morning, which irked his energetic soul; and
women's whims never did impress Luck Lindsay very deeply. Besides, just
as he was turning to ride back, Annie stooped and went into her tent as
though her gesture had carried no especial meaning.

Then in her tent he heard her singing the high, weird chant of the
Omaha mourning song and again he was half-minded to go back, though the
wailing minor notes, long drawn and mournful, might mean much or they
might mean merely a fit of the blues. The others rode on talking and
laughing together, and Luck rode with them; but the chant of the
Omaha was in his ears and tingling his nerves. And the vision of
Annie-Many-Ponies standing straight before her tent and making the sign
of peace and farewell haunted him that day.

Rosemary and Jean, standing in the porch, waved good-bye to their men
folk until the last bobbing hatcrown had gone down out of sight in the
long, low swale that creased the mesa in that direction. Whereupon they
went into the house.

"What in the world is the matter with Annie?" Jean exploded, with a
little shiver. "I'd rather hear a band of gray wolves tune up when
you're caught out in the breaks and have to ride in the dark. What is
that caterwaul? Do you suppose she's on the warpath or anything?"

"Oh, that's just the squaw coming out in her!" Rosemary slammed the door
shut so they could not hear so plainly. "She's getting more Injuny every
day of her life. I used to try and treat her like a white girl--but you
just can't do it, Jean."

"Hiu-hiu-hi-i-ah-h! Hiu-hiu-hi-i-ah-h-h--hiaaa-h-h!"

Jean stood in the middle of the room and listened. "Br-r-r!" she
shivered--and one could not blame her. "I wonder if she'd be mad,"
she drawled, "if I went out and told her to shut up. It sounds as if
somebody was dead, or going to die or something. Like Lite says your dog
will howl if anything--"

"Oh, for pity sake!" Rosemary pushed her into the living room with
make-believe savageness. "I've heard her and Luck sing that last winter.
And there's a kind of a teetery dance that goes with it. It's supposed
to be a mourning song, as Luck explains it. But don't pay any attention
to her at all. She just does it to get on our nerves. It'd tickle her to
death if she thought it made us nervous."

"And now the dog is joining in on the chorus! I must say they're a
cheerful pair to have around the house. And I