out this wonderful story, on the printed page of the Book of MorBut her fear and dislike of her own race seemed rather to increase than to abate.

mon.

Pretty, plump, little Mrs. Mary was surprised, one Saturday afternoon, a few weeks after this, to see in the fading sunlight across her doorstep a tall, somber Indian, clad in rude buckskin breeches, with a very ugly, "civilized" cotton shirt surmounting it, with the tail of the garment flapping shamelessly, and in Indian fashion, about his loins. His face was washed clean of paint and grease, and an old tattered hat was drawn over the head. It took several glances to prove that this disfigured, grim travesty of civilization was the Indian chieftain who had hung about her home mourning after Sally, a year before.

Sally herself knew him the moment he appeared, and it was her loud laugh of derision and contempt which first gave Mrs. Mary the clue to his identity.

Sally's own appearance was not without elements of absurdity. Her dark hair, once so natural and becoming in its free, flowing braids, now was pinned and twisted into a huge, unshapely knot at the back of her head. Her dress, of checked red homespun, colored and spun by her own slow fingers, betrayed the natural shape of her wild body, in the ungraceful, tightly-drawn outlines. And the crocheted collar about her neck was too round and deep for her full neck and shoulders, thus giving her a clumsy appearance. Sally was all unconscious of her own deficiencies, although keenly alive to the forlorn spectacle made by her whilom lover.

After her long, scornful merriment, she turned her back on him, and would not again look at him.

Mrs. Mary found that Kanosh had picked up some English words, and she managed to hold a somewhat extended broken conversation with the discomfited suitor. But Sally would not even look around.

The slow, resentful mind of the Indian chief worked around gradually to the conviction that he was being scorned-nay, not only scorned, but ridiculed-laughed at, and by a squaw. True, it was the squaw he loved, but she was still a squaw. And the man also recognized the subtle fact, that her scorn was not the

simple scorn of a coy Indian maiden; the laughter sprung from a more complicated, deeper source; there was an under-current of supposed superiority-the superiority of quasi-civilization-in Sally's laughter, that stung the proud man to the quick. For a moment he hated her-hated his sweetheart.

He walked up close to her scornful back, and hissed in broken English, "You laugh now. Next time I see you, you cry!"

But Sally laughed on, for she was safe in Mrs. Mary's home. And the man strode out of the door, and turned his face southward. In the fall months, rumors of the depredations of Indians, led by Elk and Walker, came thick and fast from Utah valley.

At last the white Chief was called upon to go south, quickly, that he might direct matters, now become so serious, among the white settlers gathered upon Provo river.

He asked his wife to go along, and gave his consent, reluctantly, however, for Sally to accompany them as cook and assistant. A large party of riflemen were to accompany them.

Sally herself feared to go, and feared to stay. But she went, sulkily, it is true. Yet, as the swift-footed mules drew them out of the small new city, in the cool, dim, early morning dawn, she felt a new impulse stirring within her. It was the first time she had been out of Great Salt Lake City since her capture, and she had never seen the southern valleys.

As they rode along the dusty road, the white Father explained to her many interesting facts of the scenes about them, of the truths in the book of her people's history, and of their future destiny. He was as a kind, great-hearted father, who stood far above her; but she could love him with a sort of child-worship, and she did. Sally said little, but that little showed her white guardian that the poor maiden was not without noble impulses and some glimmer of mental awakening. But her bitterness towards her own race, living in the vales of Utah, was a mystery to the white Father.

Once, when Sally asked to walk awhile up the steep, long slope leading to the Point of the mountain, Mrs. Mary took occasion to tell her husband of the rude courtship of Kanosh, and referred to the fright both she and Sally had received from Walkara. even Mrs. Mary knew nothing of the incident up City Creek; nor

But

of the reason why Walkara had sought the white woman out to threaten her.

The beautiful view from the Point of the mountain enchanted Mrs. Mary. And afterwards, the loveliness of Utah valley, which, even then, with its many streams, its broad, gleaming lake, flanked by meadows and cottonwoods, was like a Titan-jeweled landscape framed by circling mountains, threw the white woman into raptures. She begged her husband to halt, again and again, while she feasted her eyes on the rare green of the meadows, the glistening blue of the lake, and the flame-colored mountains about them. For the Indian summer was brooding over mountain and valley, filling all the gorges and canyons with purple and scarlet.

'Twas a strange experience for Sally! to have her inmost emotions of vague delight dragged out of her quivering heart, and named and minutely described by the vivid imagination of the white woman beside her. Even the colors she loved so well were classified and called, and she had scarcely before separated them in her own thoughts.

As they rode over the long bench across the valley, the white Father told them about the long, beautiful canyon through which flows Provo river; and then, farther along, he pointed out Squaw rock, on the frowning edge of the stony parapet, which guards the entrance to another smaller, blind canyon called Rock canyon.

And he told them the story, told by the Indians themselves, of the young Indian mother, captured in battle, who, with her babe slung on her back, fled up the long hill, pursued by a wicked chief who sought to dishonor her; and of how she reached, at last, the ærie where the eagles mothered their young. Then, as her enemy's head appeared above the bushes below, still in determined pursuit, she turned, and with an unearthly scream, which even now sometimes moans about the wind-swept crags, she dashed herself down the precipice, down, down, hundreds of feet in a single line, and was crushed to sudden, cruel death, on the sharp rocks below.

Sally shuddered, as she saw the jagged, gloomy outlines of that fateful crag, and listened in silence to Mrs. Mary's sad comments on the pitiful story.

There were some things Sally had learned to hate in her own life, and some things she had learned to appreciate in the new life

about her.

She hated, with a woman's hatred, the strife and commotion of the Indian life, and she loved, with a woman's understanding, the comparative peace and safety of the white woman's sheltered life. But Sally's altered tastes and ideals were somewhat beyond the scope of her own powers of thorough assimilation. As the cavalcade drew near the fort, a delegation of settlers met the white Father and escorted him into the fort.

It was discovered in council that night that there was a very large band of Indians outside, led by Walkara, and bent on mischief, as many incidents proved. Sowiette and Kanosh were south, and Walker and Elk were in full command.

The white Father cautioned the council to keep everybody inside the fort after sundown, and to keep plenty of scouts on the lookout. As ever, his efforts and counsel were for peace and conciliation, and he was very sorry to find Sowiette away on a southern hunting trip. That evening was a crisp, sparkling one, yet clouds hung in the sky; and the great moon, coming up like a mammoth disc of silver over the far off southeast mountains, even before the purple of the sunset had faded from Squaw's point; the beauty of that scene led the feet of poor, restless Sally down from the fort and out into the fields beyond.

No one had thought to caution her, and, although she knew there was great danger, the terrible struggle going on in her mind between the past and the future, absorbed her every slow, sombre thought. She was only a few rods from the stockade gates, looking up through the yellow cottonwood leaves at the quiet, familiar stars, picking out their world-old patterns on the blue background of the sky. There was a soft rustle in the brush at her feet, as if a snake had stirred the leaves. Sally stooped to see what it was. In an instant, a great blanket was thrown over her head, her call for help was stifled, and she was carried swiftly away in the cool darkness.

And then, a flight on a horse behind a warrior, around whose naked body her aching hands were tightly bound!

No need for a blanket now. Clouds, and the trees along the path, hid everything from poor Sally's eyes. She longed, with a dull throb, to know who this was, who thus dealt with her as her people sometimes did. Was it the brave who loved her, and at whom she had laughed, or was it the savage enemy she hated and

feared, the one who had nearly slain a white woman in his spiteful revenge at her? She could not tell. She could only dimly, dumbly suffer and try to remember a prayer to the white Spirit she had been taught by her white friend and mistress.

It was hours after when the Indian paused, and, untying her hands, lifted her to the ground. Not a word was said. But Sally was led into a large wickeup, and almost thrown down on a couch of wild skins. The Indian girl knew the uselessness of either speech or attempted flight. A small camp fire was soon lighted outside, and Sally saw from her couch stealthy forms creeping about in the bushes. But she could get no glimpse of her captor's face.

Was it love, or a far meaner, deadlier passion, which had brought her here? For even an Indian woman learns the darkness of the gulf between the two.

Terrified as she was, she was still weary-and very healthy! She slept! The sun was streaming down the valley ramparts, but had not yet reached Sally's retreat, when she awoke, sore with her flight, and still in mortal terror.

Her eyes at once caught the figure of an Indian, sitting at the wickeup door, his blanket drawn about his huge shoulders, for the cold canyon breeze swept through the hill's crevice like a Sally was not a coward. She was a woman, and therefore But she could die, and without cringing!

knife. timid.

She recog-
But she

She sprang up, and, as she ran to the opening in the skin tent, the man stood up, and dropped his blanket from his face. It was Walkara! Cold, cruel, crafty Walkara! nized him with an inward groan of terror and hatred. steeled her face into Indian stoicism, and looked him squarely in the eye. They were at the edge of Rock canyon, and right above her, across the stream, looking down with frowning gloom, rose Squawrock. The wickeup was planted against a huge semi-circle of a rock, and below them dashed a turbid, mountain stream. Not a foot of room lay between her and the stream below, and the rock frowned above her. She knew her helplessness and her danger.

Walkara came towards her, and, catching her hands in the vice-like clasp of his own, he grunted in his own tongue, "You are my squaw now!" All the primeval instincts of her own Indian training, all the new and fresh ideals, hovering like clouds above