little manual which they had unearthed from most unlikely places.
“The white man’s words are good,” the leader said, turning toward the sergeant. “The Indians will pray for the Gikhi. Mebbe the Lord will not let the Gikhi die.”
Then at a word the natives all dropped upon their knees while the leader began to pray in the native tongue. At times all joined in, and from their earnest tones it was quite evident that they meant what they said.
Rising at length from their knees, they began to sing an old familiar hymn. This ended, they sang another, and still another. Their enthusiasm was now intense. It had been months since they had held such a service, and their hearts were all deeply stirred. When at last they paused to rest, some were anxious to start right away that very night for The Gap, but others advised waiting until morning before beginning the journey.
While they were discussing this, the other hootch peddler sneaked into their midst and stood before the fire. He was shivering with cold and his face was scarred and bleeding. The Indians made no attempt to molest the miserable creature, but left him to the sergeant.
“Where have you been?” the latter asked.
“Out in the woods, freezin’,” was the gasping reply. “I would have died if you hadn’t come along. Say, these Indians are devils.”
“Who made them devils?” the sergeant sternly asked. “You did,” he continued, receiving no reply. “You and your partner brought in your hootch-poison, and it’s a wonder they didn’t kill you.”
