“Ford?” Calamity asked.

“Go ’way, Calamity,” whispered Eleanor.

She saw the little woman rise slowly.

“He is murdered,” Mrs. Williams said, “he is murdered just as truly as if Moyese had cut his throat with his own hand.”  It was not for months after, that Eleanor recalled the look on Calamity’s face as the Indian woman heard those frenzied words.  Then Mrs. Williams broke in uncontrollable sobbing.  “Leave me!  Go out—­all of you.  Leave me alone!”

Eleanor shut the door and led the dazed Indian children from the outer hall.  In the Library, opposite the Mission Parlor, she found old Calamity sitting on the floor with the shawl over her head.  The half-breed woman sat peering through the shawl as Eleanor lighted the hanging lamp.  No Indian will mention the name of the dead.  She fastened her eyes on Eleanor, snakily, sinister, never shifting her glance.

“What is it, Calamity?”

“Is dat true?  Senator man he keel heem—­keel leetle boy?” she asked slowly.

Eleanor thought a moment.

“Yes, it is entirely true,” she said, never heeding the import of her words to the superstitious mind of the Indian woman.

A little hiss of breath came from the crouching form.  She rose, drew the shawl round her head and at the door, turned.

“Dey take mine,” she said, “and now dey keel heem, an’ white man, he yappy—­yappy—­yappy; not do—­not do any t’ing!  He send for Mount’ P’lice, mabee no do anyt’ing unless Indian man . . . he keel.”  The little hiss of breath again and a cunning mad look in the eyes.

“Go ’way Calamity!  Go home to our ranch house!”

By and by, came Wayland.  She knew why he had come after dark, carrying the slender body against his shoulder.  A white handkerchief had been thrown over the face; and she saw that he held the arms tightly to hide the fact that both had been broken in the fall.  The rains had matted the curly hair and brought a strange rose glow to the cheeks.  There again—­Eleanor had to shut the doors of memory; for they had carried him in together.  The wind was not tempered to the shorn lamb; and it is the living, not the dead, who beat against the Portals of Death.

They kept watch together, she and Wayland, in the Library across from the closed door of the Mission.  Parlor, black-eyed Indian urchins peeping furtively from the head of the stairs till bells rang lights out.  Then silence fell, stabbed by the creak of floor, the swing of door, the click and rustle of the cotton wood leaves outside.

There was a slight patter of rain-drip from the eaves somewhere.  A gate swung to the wind; and, from across the hall, they could hear the driven footsteps pacing up and down the parlor.  Then, the drip,—­drip,—­was broken by longer blanks, and stopped.  The cotton wood leaves ceased to rustle and flutter.  Only the twang of the night hawk’s wing hummed through the stillness; and the distracted tread no longer paced the Mission Parlor.  When Eleanor came back from across the hall, she shut the Library door softly.