letter I will take it to them to see if you have read it to me right,

and if you have I will send it off.”

“It is lucky I spoke to you about that,” said Carl to himself. “I’ll write such a letter as I am willing those Carlisle fellows should read. Do they, too, believe in the Ghost Dance?” he added aloud.

“I tell you that everybody believes in it who has seen it,” returned the squawman. “Everything goes to prove that it is a part of the religion that the white folks have got up for themselves.”

“In what way does it prove it?” asked the scout. He had a chance now to learn something about the Ghost Dance. He was more interested in it than he was in effecting his escape.

“Why, this earth is going to be destroyed,” said Harding. “It is all worn out now, the buffalo and all the other game is gone up, and we are going to have it new, as it was before the white folks came here and spoiled it all for us. Those who don’t believe in the Ghost Dance will all be killed by a fire or an earthquake or something, and those who believe enough in it to wear their ghost shirts will be saved.”

“What is that about the ghost shirts?” said Carl; for you must remember that what this squawman said was all news to him.

“Hold on and I will show you one,” said Harding. “You must say nothing to nobody about it, for if you do, the shirt will not be of any use to me.”

“Oh, I will say nothing about it,” said the scout with a laugh. “I shall not get a chance. If the general will not exchange those two prisoners for me, I shall be in a bad fix.”

“Won’t you, though?” said the squawman with a grin. “You will be gone up, sure. However, it will give you a little chance for your life.”

“You bet it will,” said Carl mentally. “While you are waiting for your letter from General Miles, I will be looking out for an opportunity to escape.”

The squawman went to one side of the tepee, and after removing the iron kettle which contained what was left of the breakfast and kicking aside a few old pots and pans, he finally drew out a buffalo bag that contained one thing that he prized above everything else upon earth. In a few minutes he drew out the ghost shirt, and held it up so that Carl could have a fair view of it. The garment was made of a light buckskin, sewed with deer sinew, and cut in the form of all the Indians’ hunting-shirts. The outside of it was ornamented with rude pictures representing buffalo, deer and ravens, who seemed to be in full flight.

“Now, when we get this on, the white man’s rifle won’t amount to a row of pins,” said the squawman. “The weapon will refuse to fire, or the bullet in it will be turned aside and drop to the ground.”

“Who told you all this?” asked Carl.

“The medicine man; and he is the one that prayed to the Messiah while they were on their way home, and he set them miles ahead on their journey.”

Carl did not say anything, but his thoughts were busy. What a pity it was, he thought, that Ainsworth and Tuttle did not have on those ghost shirts when General Miles’ force came up with them.

“You see it is sewed with sinew,” said the squawman, “and that proves that we must not take anything into the dance that the white man has made. We can wear anything that we have made ourselves, but nothing else.”

“Do you think you are going to whip the white man?”

“Not unless we have to.”

“And when you do whip him,” continued Carl, “you will have to use the weapons he made for you, will you not?”

“Well, that is a different thing,” said the squawman, after thinking a moment. “Of course we will have to use the weapons he made for us, and why not? He brought all this trouble upon us, and we would show ourselves lacking in sense if we didn’t use his own weapons upon him.”

“You say your shirt would not be of any use to you if you were known to have shown it to a white man,” said Carl. “How do you make that out?”

“All I know is what the medicine man told us,” said the squawman, packing his garment away again in its dried buffalo skin. “We are going to whip them easy when we put our shirts on, but we don’t want your folks to know anything about it.”

“Well, before I write that letter to General Miles you say you have some business to transact with me,” Carl reminded him. “What is it?”

“It is this,” said the squawman, seating himself once more on the bed. “You have got lots of cattle there, more than you need, and I want you to write me out a bill of sale for a thousand head.”

“What will be the use of that? You will not want the cattle until this fight is over.”

“I know that; but if anything should happen, and our medicine man should be mistaken, we want to get the cattle without any trouble. You have left men on your ranch to protect them.”

“Of course I have, and they will shoot down anybody who comes around there fooling with the stock. But your medicine man won’t be mistaken. The grass is not green yet.”

“No, but our medicine man sees that our people are getting impatient, and he has agreed to shorten the time of the Messiah’s coming until this winter. That is why we are keeping up the dance so long—just to show him that we are ready for him as soon as he wants to come.”

Carl was astonished, for he had never heard that there were people who could bring the world to an end whenever they pleased. While he was thinking about it a shrill voice on the outside of the tepee set up a shout, and the squawman jumped to his feet and went to the flap of the door to listen. In a short time he came back again, after speaking a few words to the women who stood close about the tepee, and said:

“It has come at last.”

“What do you mean? The fight?”

“Oh, no. We have got orders to pack up our houses and move up to the dance-ground.”