For an hour the circle sat staring into the flame, thinking of the old times. Then without a word, Rainwalker and White Horse arose and passed out of the lodge and the others followed. “Well,” said Meekleman to McBarty, as they walked along the lonesome road toward the Agency, “I have the honour to address the Hon. James McBarty!” The other did not answer for several minutes. “Meekleman,” said McBarty at length, “don’t you suppose I _can_ do something for these poor devils?” “Ah, McBarty,” returned Meekleman, “I am afraid you will never be a politician!” Upon the following Monday morning when the tribe gathered for the continuation of the big payment, the news began to circulate that the great white man had gone to see the Big Father at Washington about the payment of the money to the minor children. As this news was authenticated by White Horse and Rainwalker themselves, it was readily believed, and in one day four hundred brown votes swung over to the Republican faith again. On Tuesday, a week before election, there was not a brown Democrat on the reserve. This state of affairs continued on through the week until Friday evening, at which time no word had come from the Big Father. The Democratic candidate for Congress, Judge Roberts, had arrived at the Agency during the week to battle in person against the impending calamity. All week he and his retainers led the forlorn hope. But on Friday afternoon, when the news so impatiently awaited by the Indians had not yet arrived, the all but lost cause began to gain a foothold in a persistent rumour that hinted that maybe the Indian had been fooled after all. Maybe Meekleman didn’t intend to intercede for the Indians at all; and accordingly, one by one, the brown men wondered, doubted, wavered and lost hope, until by Saturday evening, when the pay station closed, there had begun a restless, slow, and certain movement among the Omahas toward the Democratic ranks. When Monday morning came, twenty-four hours before the opening of the polls, the political condition of the Omahas could have been summed up in one laconic conversation: “Well, _cuggie_, [friend] how are you voting?” “Dimmiticrat, guess!” McBarty strolled leisurely about among the Omahas with an enigmatical smile upon his face, seeming to be unconscious of the crushing defeat he was, apparently, about to receive. The day wore on and hour by hour grew the triumph of the Judge, who now already felt himself the “Gentleman from Nebraska.” At five o’clock in the evening the two candidates were seen talking together at the door of the pay station. “Well, Mac,” said the Judge, “it’s looking a little dark for you. I swear, a week ago I would have sold my chances for a cent!” McBarty repeatedly looked up the dusty government trail leading north from the station with an expression of anxiety.