showed the pleasure he felt at the meeting. "My name
is Wentworth; what is yours?"

George told him, and Mr. Wentworth said he had often heard the name, and
in a roundabout way had learned something of the family history.

"I have heard of you too," said George. "You have often been obliged to
run in order to save your life and stock, have you not?"

"Yes, and I have always succeeded in getting safely away; but there is a
first time for everybody, and mine came three days ago. I was going on
to say that I am afraid the savages will take vengeance on my helpless
little boys for the braves I shot in the fight," continued Mr.
Wentworth. "If they don't do that, they will probably hold them for
ransom; but they might as well tomahawk the boys at once and put them
out of their misery, for I haven't a horn nor a hoof nor a cent of money
to give in exchange for them. I know I have seen them for the last time,
but won't I make it hot for those who stole them?"

George could not say anything comforting. The sight of the strong man's
overwhelming grief struck him dumb.

"I know some of the bucks who were in the fight," continued Mr.
Wentworth, grinding his teeth and rubbing his hands nervously together.
"They have often camped on my ranche when they came down here
buffalo-hunting. I don't care what treaties our government may make with
that tribe; there will be eternal war between me and them. No Kiowa
shall ever cross my trail and live--no, not if I hang for it. I only
wish that some of those peace commissioners--those lunatics who believe
that an Indian is a human being and needs only kind treatment to make
him peaceable and friendly--could stand in my boots this minute. I tell
you, Ackerman, if one of them were here now I'd stand and see an Indian
shoot him, and never lift a hand in his defence. I got in last night and
told the colonel about it, and he said he would send out a couple of
companies this morning with orders to overtake and punish them if
possible; but he might as well save his men and horses, for it isn't
possible. They have reached the Staked Plains by this time, and are safe
from pursuit. This is a lovely government for a white man to live under,
isn't it? It is too cowardly to protect us from the Mexicans, and too
tender-hearted to hang an Indian for murder unless he happens to kill
some one high in authority, like General Canby."

Mr. Wentworth seemed almost beside himself when he thought of his boys,
wh