Mark Clifton's face darkened. He grasped a chair and stepped forward, as if to strike the speaker. He hesitated. As he did so, a handsome cowboy entered, followed by a little Indian boy of perhaps six years of age. "What's the row, Hastings?" asked the cowboy in a low voice. "Pete Tompkins and Bill Hines and their ilk are planning to give Miss Bright, the new teacher, some trouble when she attempts to start a Bible school to-morrow afternoon. Clifton remonstrated, and they taunted him about Carla Earle. That enraged him." "What do they plan ter do?" "I fancy they'll do every blackguard thing they can think of. They are drunk now, but when they are sober they may reconsider. At any rate, the decent men of the camp ought to be on the spot to protect that girl, Harding." "I'll be there fur one, Hastings. Have yer seen 'er?" "Yes. As I rode into camp just now I passed someone I took to be Miss Bright." "Pretty as a picter, ain't she?" said Jack Harding. "Look, there she goes around the bend of the road towards Claytons'. There goes y'r teacher, Wathemah." The Indian child bounded to the door. "Me teacher, _me_ teacher," he said over and over to himself, as he watched the receding figure. "_Your_ teacher, eh, sonny," said Kenneth Hastings smiling. He laid his hand on the child's head. "Yes, _me_ teacher," said the boy proudly. His remark was overheard by Pete Tompkins. "Lookee here, boys! There goes Wathemah's teacher. Now's y'r chance, my hearties. See the nat'ral cur'osity as is to start a religion shop, an' grind us fellers inter angels. Are my wings sproutin'?" As he spoke the words, he flapped his elbows up and down. Kenneth Hastings and Jack Harding exchanged glances. Mark Clifton had gone. Pete Tompkins hereupon stepped to the door and called out: "Three cheers fur the angel o' the Gila, my hearties. One, two, three! Now! That's it. Now! Death to the Bible school!" "Death to the Bible school!" shouted they in unison. The little Indian heard their words. He knew that insult and, possibly, injury threatened his teacher, and, stepping up to Pete Tompkins, he kicked his shins with all his childish strength, uttering oaths that drew forth hilarious laughter from the men. "Y're a good un," said one. "Give 'im a trounce in the air," added another. In a moment, the child was tossed from one to another, his passionate cries and curses mingling with their ribald laughter. At last he was caught by John Harding, who held him in his arms. "Never mind, Wathemah," he said soothingly. Hoarse with rage, the child shrieked, "You blankety blanked devils! You blankety blanked devils!" A ruffian cursed him. He was wild. He struggled to free himself, to return to the fray, but Jack Harding held him fast. "You devils, devils, devils!" he shrieked again. His little frame trembled with anger, and he burst into tears. "Never mind, little chap," said his captor, drawing him closer, "ye go with me."