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 burnin' annywan, 'specially a boy. No, or of burnin' me own coat, nayther, till I see the wind changin'." He and George rapidly made up a parcel of the meat, blackened and charred though the hunks were. "But we cooked our supper by it. Goodbye to ye. Chance be we'll see ye later." With airy wave of hand he trudged away.

"His name is Patrick Gass. My name is George Shannon," emphasized George, lingering a moment. "Yours is Peter Kerr. All right, Peter. Watch out for the Otoes, that they don't spy you when you come in after dark."

"I come," answered Peter, carefully. "Oto no catch."

Away they hastened, toward the river. Standing stock-still, Peter watched them go. Good men they were. They were white; he was white. They were 'Nited States; he was to be 'Nited States, too.

He did not pause to eat now. He grabbed a chunk of the buffalo meat left for him, and trotted for the nearest sand-hill. The fire had burned before him, and the earth was still warm, but the sand-hills were untouched.

He drank, at last, from a branch of the Omaha Creek; and among the sand-hills he stayed all day.

In the afternoon he heard, from off toward the United States camp at the river, a rumble like thunder. It was the big gun! At dusk he saw a glow redly lighting the eastern horizon over the river. Maybe the