“Well,” he said, “allow me to congratulate the Hon. John Roberts of Nebraska!” He smiled gravely as he shook the hand of his rival. “All I regret now,” he added, “is that I drank that soup!” “Thanks!” replied the Judge. “It really seems a shame, however, that one should go to Congress at the hands of these savages, eh?” “Yes,” said McBarty, taking a long gaze up the trail; “it is a shame, to be sure!” At that moment a little farce was being enacted a mile up the road. Within the covering of a wild plum thicket at the side of the trail a saddled and bridled horse was lariated to a stake, and a man sat near by upon a rock, repeatedly tapping the horse on the flanks as it galloped about in a circle. “Lather up there!” cried the man, as he nipped the horse with the whiplash; “lather up there!” And the horse dashed about the circle until its flanks were dripping and its mouth was white with foam. At length the man took out his watch, saw that it was 5:30 o’clock, and untying the lariat, he mounted and put the spurs to his already jaded animal, dashing at a furious pace down the dusty old trail toward the Agency. A few moments later McBarty and the Judge caught sight of a furious rider dashing toward them in a cloud of dust. “Who do you suppose that can be riding so fast?” said the Judge. “Oh,” said McBarty, smiling broadly, “that, Judge, is merely my election coming up at the gallop!” Amid dust and yelling and a general spectacular confusion the horseman dashed up to the door of the pay station, threw his horse on its haunches in stopping, and cried: “A telegram from Washington for the Agent!” In a few moments a great crowd of Indians had gathered about the horse and rider. The Agent, with a smile upon his face, rushed out of the station and seized a bit of yellow paper that the rider held in his hand. Breathlessly the crowd of Omahas waited. “Listen!” shouted a crier in the Omaha tongue, standing by the Agent, who was reading the telegram. “The Big Father at Washington sends this word to his brown brothers: ‘The children’s money shall be paid!’” For a moment following the shout of the crier, there was a great silence. Then a roar went up from the Omahas—a wild, hoarse shout of joy! Judge Roberts turned pale, and extending his hand to McBarty, said: “Well, you have won. Allow me to congratulate the Hon. James McBarty of Nebraska.” And when the next morning’s sun arose, the polls were besieged by a throng of brown Republicans. XIX THE LAST THUNDER SONG IT is an ancient custom to paint tragedy in blood tints. This is because men were once merely animals, and have not as yet been able to live down their ancestry. Yet the stroke of a dagger is a caress beside the throb of hopeless days. Life can ache; the living will tell you this. But the dead make no complaint.