thin frame shook with emotion. He could not go there with his letter.

He dismounted from his pony. His quavering voice chanted a bravery song
as he gathered dry grasses and the dead stalks of last year's
sunflowers. He built a fire, and crying aloud, for his sorrow was
greater than he could bear, he cast the letter into the flames. The fire
consumed it. He sent his message on the wings of fire and he believed
she would get it. He yet trusted that help would come to his people
before it was too late. The pony tossed his head in a readiness to go.
He knew he was on the return trip and he was glad to travel.

The wind which blew so gently at dawn was now increased into a gale as
the sun approached the zenith. The chieftain, on his way home, sensed a
coming storm. He looked upward to the sky and around in every direction.
Behind him, in the distance, he saw a cloud of dust. He saw several
horsemen whipping their ponies and riding at great speed. Occasionally
he heard their shouts, as if calling after some one. He slackened his
pony's pace and frequently looked over his shoulder to see who the
riders were advancing in hot haste upon him. He was growing curious. In
a short time the riders surrounded him. On their coats shone brass
buttons, and on their hats were gold cords and tassels. They were Indian
police.

"Wan!" he exclaimed, finding himself the object of their chase. It was
their foolish ilk who had murdered the great leader, Sitting Bull.
"Pray, what is the joke? Why do young men surround an old man quietly
riding home?"

"Uncle," said the spokesman, "we are hirelings, as you know. We are sent
by the government superintendent to arrest you and take you back with