The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1912-02-27

"see. you have given me Malay krisI"
 ''Ah." be remarked calmly. tits get ting dry now. Here is your knife, my good fellow"
 looked about me. almost disposed to rub my eyes. as were perhaps the others of our party. The same great plains were there. the same wide shinmering stream. r1ppling in the sunlight. the same groups of animals grazing on the bluff. the same senti neIs outlined against the sky. Over all shone the binding light of the western midday sun. Yet as Orme straightened out this blanket it was as white as 1t had been before. Au- berry looked at his knife blade as though he would have preferred to throw 1t away. but he sheathed it and it fitted the sheuth as before.
 Orme smiled at us all pleasantly. ~DO you believe in the Indian tele- graph now?'' he inquired.
 l have told you many things of this strange man. Gordon Orme. and shall need to tell yet others. Some times my friends smile at me even yet over these things. But since that day have not doubted the tales old Au- berry told me of our own Indians Since then. too. l have better under stood Gordon Orme and his strange personality. the ike of which 1 never knew in any land.
 How long it was I hardly knew. for I had sunk into sort of dull apathy in which one day was much like an- other. But at last we gathered our In6 rfr nd camp. our wounded men IH the wag- ons. and so slowly passed on west ward. up the trail. We supposed. what later proved to be true. that the Sioux had raided in the valley on both sides of us and that the scattered DOT tions of the army had all they could do. while the freight trains were held back until the road was clear.
 l wearied of the monOtony of wagon travel and without council with any finally. weak as l was. called for my horse and rode on slowly with the walking teams. l had gone for some distance before I heard hoofs on the sand behind me.
 Guess who 1t fs." called a voice. Don't turn your head"
 ''l can't turn," 1 answered. ''but l KnoW Wn0 IT IS.
 She rode up alongside. where I could see her. and fair enough she was to look upon. and glad enough l was to look. She was thinner now with this prairie life. and browner. and tte ends of her hair were still yellowing. like that of outdoors men. She still was booted and RIoved after the fashion of civilization. and still elsew1se garbed in the aboriginal costume. which she filled and honUred graciously The metal cylinders on her Ieggins rattled as she rode
 You ought not to ride" she said ''You age pale"
 'You are hs1utfful." said I: "and 1 ride because NOu are beautiful"
 Her eyes were busy with her gloves. but saw sidelonR glance 'T do not understand you" she said demureIy.
 ''l could not sit back there in the wagon and think" said 1. "l knew that you would be riding before long. and guessed ! might perhaps talk with you"
 She bit her lip and half pulled up her horse as if to fall back. That will depend" was her comment. But we rode on side by side. knee to knee.
 Many things l had studied before then. for certain mysteries hHd cOmt 10 me. as to many men. who wish log
 ally to know the causes of great ph'
 omena. From bOyhood l had poI
 cred many things. 1 had lain on III
 ack and looked up at the stars an
 .ondered how far they were. and ho
 IT the farthest thing beyond the vas. l had wondered at that indetP ninate quotient in my sums. where tt same figure came. always the sam running on and on. l used to wond' what was my soul, and l fancied tn; 1t was a pale. blue flaming oblat' somewhere near by. back and in. th' middle of my body-such was my boy Ish guess of what they told me was real thing. had pondered on that compass of the skies by which the wild fowl guide themselves. 1 had won