7/41 There's a fine fire." Forgetful of the cold ride and of the snow down his back, he was standing before the feathered head-dress of a Sioux Chief and touching the tomahawk below it. "Those must be scalp-locks--three." He saw the prairie, the wild pursuit--saw them as she could not. He went after her upstairs, the girl talking, the boy rapt, lost in far-away battles on the plains. |