Now Harned perceived that they were standing erect; they two and only they in the place. Directly in front of them lay Red Horse, the blood streaming from his arm. He was dead; nor was there a single living creature among the Indians. Some had fallen before they could reach the door at which they had flung themselves in the last access of fury; some lay about the floor, and one—the one with the knife—was stiff behind Harned in the dark room. “Look at that fellow,” called Harned. “I didn’t hit him; he may be shamming.” “I didn’t hit him either,” said Wickliff, “but he’s dead all the same. So are the others. I’d been too, I guess, but for your good blow on that feller’s arm. I saw him, but you can’t kill two at once.” “How did you do it?” “Doped the whiskey. Cyanide of potassium from your photographic drugs; that was the quickest. Even if they had killed you and me, it would work before they could get the women and children. The only risk was their not taking it, and with an Indian that wasn’t so much. Now, pardner, you better give a hail, and then we’ll hitch up and get them safe in the settlement till we see how things are going.” “And then?” said Harned, growing red. Amos gnawed at the corners of his mustache in rather a shamefaced way. “Then? Why, then I’ll have to leave you, and make the best story I can honestly for the old lady. Oh yes, damn it! I know my duty; I never went back on it before. But I never went back on a pardner either; and after fighting together like we have, I’m not up to any Roman-soldier business; nor I ain’t going to give you a pair of handcuffs for saving my life! So run outside and holler to your frau.” Left alone, Wickliff gazed about him in deep meditation, which at last found outlet in a few pensive sentences. “Clean against the rules of war; but rules of war are as much wasted on Injuns as ‘please’ on a stone-deaf man! And I simply _had_ to save the women and children. Still it’s a pretty sorry lay-out to pay five thousand dollars for the privilege of seeing. But it’s a good deal worse to not do my duty. I shall never forgive myself. But I never should forgive myself for going back on a pardner either. I guess all it comes to is, duty’s a cursed blind trail!” THE HYPNOTIST THE HYPNOTIST There were not so many carriages in the little Illinois city with chop-tailed horses, silver chains, and liveried coachmen that the clerks in the big department shop should not know the Courtlandt landau, the Courtlandt victoria, and the Courtlandt brougham (Miss Abbie Courtlandt’s private equipage) as well as they knew Madam Courtlandt, Mrs. Etheridge, or Miss Abbie. Two of the shop-girls promptly absorbed themselves in Miss Abbie, one May morning, when she alighted from the brougham. For an instant she stood, as if undecided, looking absently at the window, which happened to be a huge kaleidoscope of dolls.