the Indian village."

"Why, no, father," corrected Miss Cahill. "Don't you remember, you
told me last night that when you reached Lightfoot's tent I had just
gone. That was quite two hours after the others left the store." In
her earnestness Miss Cahill had placed her hand upon her father's arm
and clutched it eagerly. "And you remember no one coming in before
you left?" she asked. "No one?"

Cahill had not replaced the bandaged hand in his pocket, but had
shoved it inside the opening of his coat. As Mary Cahill caught his
arm her fingers sank into the palm of the hand and he gave a slight
grimace of pain.

"Oh, father," Miss Cahill cried, "your hand! I am so sorry. Did I
hurt it? Please--let me see."

Cahill drew back with sudden violence.

"No!" he cried. "Leave it alone! Come, we must be going." But Miss
Cahill held the wounded hand in both her own. When she turned her
eyes to Ranson they were filled with tender concern.

"I hurt him," she said, reproachfully. "He shot himself last night
with one of those new cylinder revolvers."

Her father snatched the hand from her. He tried to drown her voice by
a sudden movement toward the door. "Come!" he called. "Do you hear
me?"