The coroner had sprung back from the table. The mighty man of valor, who defended law, had precipitately put the space of overturned benches between himself and the irate old frontiersman. Matthews suddenly swung to face the spectators. "Men," he cried, "foul murder has been done; and this slander is t' fasten guilt on a poor innocent outcast woman, t' send her a scapegoat int' th' wilderness bearin' th' sins o' those higher up that A do na' name; of y'r Man Higher Up, who is the curse o' this land! 'Twas in my boyhood days on Saskatchewan! This woman, that y' have seen wander the Black Hills sinnin' unashamed, was but a fair slip o' an Indian girl, then, pure as y'r own girls in school! She married a little Indian boy, Wandering Spirit o' the Crees at Frog Lake! The Indian Officer at Frog Lake was a Sioux half-breed--he took her forcibly from Wandering Spirit t' th' Agency House! 'Twas y'r sheep rancher, MacDonald, who was fur trader then, went forcibly to th' Agency House, thrashed the Agent, and brought her back to the Indian, Wandering Spirit! A was passin' West by dog train to the Mountains when A stopped at the Agency House! MacDonald had gone North. Little Wandering Spirit comes and asks me t' interpret something he has to say t' th' Master--meanin' that danged unclean Sioux beast. Says I, 'Wandering Spirit has something not pleasant t' say t' you: Y' better get another interpreter.' The officer says, 'Spit it out! Y' can't phase me.' Boys, A spit it out. A gave it to him plain! The boy Indian stood in the door o' th' Agency House holdin' a loaded dog-train whip hidden behind his back. He was na' but half as big as the brute behind the Government desk! He says, 'Tell the Master he must leave my wife alone! If ever he comes near m' tepee again, A do to him like that,' rolling a dead leaf t' powder 'tween his hands. The officer lets out a roar o' filthy oaths! I hear the little Indian give a scream like a hurt wild cat. 'He calls me a dog--a son of a dog,' he screams; an' boys, with one leap he was over that counter with his dog whip; an' what A did t' y'r Sheriff last week in the Pass is nothing to what that bit of an Indian boy did t' yon bullying Agent! He thrashed him, an' he thrashed him, an' he chased him bellowin' round the Agency House till the blackguard's pants were ribbons an' the blood stripes reached down an' soaked his socks. Boys, A went on to th' Mountains! When A came back next year an' when MacDonald came back from MacKenzie River, we found that Agent had had Little Wandering Spirit arrested by the Mounted Police for assault an' battery, an' sentenced to a year in th' penitentiary! 'Twas too late to undo the wrong! Th' girl, th' woman y' know as Calamity, had gone insane from abuse! A helped to pry her dead child from her arms! A helped the priest t' bury it in the snow! Next year, was the Rebellion! Y'r sheepman an' his wife, Miss Eleanor