"See you've got Jim Crow workin' around--south." Seth waved an arm in the direction whence he had come. "Yes." Again came the Agent's swiftly passing smile. "We're a good distance from the southern boundary. Jim Crow's smart enough. How did you know?" "Saw his tepee." "Ah. You've been south?" "Yes. There's a fine open country that aways." They passed into the Agency, and Parker's sister and housekeeper brought the visitor coffee. The house was very plain, roomy, and comfortable. The two men were sitting in the office. "Seen anything of Steyne around?" asked Seth, after a noisy sip of his hot coffee. "Too much. And he's very shy." Seth nodded. He quite understood. "Guess suthin's movin'," he said, while he poured his coffee into his saucer and blew it. "I've thought so, too, and written to the colonel at the fort. What makes you think so?" "Can't say. Guess it's jest a notion." Seth paused. Then he went on before the other could put in a word. "Won't be just yet. Guess I'll git on." The two men passed out of the house, and Seth remounted. "Guess you might let me know if Black Fox gits his 'pass,'" he said, as he turned his horse away. "I will." Parker watched the horseman till he disappeared amongst the bushes. A moment later he was talking to his sister. "Wish I'd telegraphed to the fort now," he said regretfully. "I can't do it after writing, they'd think--I believe Seth came especially to convey warning, and to hear about Black Fox's pass. It's a remarkable thing, but he seems to smell what these Indians are doing." "Yes," said his sister. But she felt that when two such capable men discussed the Indians there was no need for her to worry, so she took out Seth's cup and retired to her kitchen. In the meantime Seth had reached the river. Here he again dismounted, but this time for no more significant reason than to wash out the rag he had rescued from the bush south of the Reservations. He washed and rewashed the cotton, till it began to regain something of its original color. Then he examined it carefully round the hem. It was a small, woman's handkerchief, and, in one corner, a name was neatly written in marking ink. The name was "Raynor." CHAPTER IX THE ADVENTURES OF RED RIDING HOOD It is Sunday. The plaintive tinkle of the schoolroom bell at the Mission has rung the Christianized Indians to the short service which is held there. "Indian Mission." The name conveys a sense of peace. Yet the mission histories of the Indian Reservations would make bloody reading. From the first the Christian teacher has been the pitiable prey of the warlike savage. He bears the brunt of every rising. It is only in recent years that his work has attained the smallest semblance of safety. The soldier fights an open foe. The man in charge of an Indian mission does not fight at all. He stands ever in the slaughter-yard, living only at the pleasure of the reigning chief. He is a brave man.