In some respects the mind of Good Indian was extremely simple and direct. His knowledge of women was rudimentary and based largely upon his instincts rather than any experience he had had with them. He had been extremely uncomfortable in the knowledge that Evadna was angry, and strongly impelled, in spite of his hurt pride, to make overtures for peace. He was puzzled, as well as surprised, when she seized him by the shoulders and herself made peace so bewitchingly that he could scarcely realize it at first. But since fate was kind, and his lady love no longer frowned upon him, he made the mistake of taking it for granted she neither asked nor expected him to explain his seeming neglect of her and his visit to Miss Georgie at Hartley. She was not angry with him. Therefore, he was free to turn his whole attention to this trouble which had come upon his closest friends. He reached out, caught Evadna by the hand, pulled her close to him, and smiled upon her in a way to make her catch her breath in a most unaccountable manner. But he did not say anything to her; he was a young man unused to dalliance when there were serious things at hand. “I'm going down there and see what they're up to,” he told Phoebe, giving Evadna's hand a squeeze and letting it go. “I suspect there's something more than keeping the peace behind Baumberger's anxiety to have them left strictly alone. The boys had better keep away, though.” “Are you going down in the orchard?” Evadna rounded her unbelievably blue eyes at him. “Then I'm going along.” “You'll do nothing of the kind, little Miss Muffit,” he declared from the top step. “Why not?” “I might want to do some swearing.” He grinned down at her, and started off. “Now, Grant, don't you do anything rash!” Phoebe called after him sharply. “'Don't--get--excited!'” he retorted, mimicking Baumberger. “I'm going a little way, whether you want me to or not,” Evadna threatened, pouting more than ever. She did go as far as the porch with him, and was kissed and sent back like a child. She did not, however, go back to her aunt, but ran into her own room, where she could look out through the grove toward the orchard--and to the stable as well, though that view did not interest her particularly at first. It was pure accident that made her witness what took place at the gate. CHAPTER XVII. A LITTLE TARGET-PRACTICE A grimy buck with no hat of any sort and with his hair straggling unbraided over one side of his face to conceal a tumor which grew just over his left eye like a large, ripe plum, stood outside the gate, in doubt whether to enter or remain where he was. When he saw Good Indian he grunted, fumbled in his blanket, and held out a yellowish envelope. “Ketchum Squaw-talk-far-off,” he explained gutturally.