Up the street they went:  a small dark girl garbed as no woman was ever garbed in a fashion-plate, a tall copper-brown man all but humorously grotesque in a ready-made suit of clothes that were far from a fit and the first starched shirt and collar he had ever worn.  Laughable unqualifiedly, this red man tricked out in the individuality-destroying dress of the white brother would have been to an observer who had not the key to the situation; but to one who knew the motive of the alteration it was far as the ends of the earth from humorous.  On they went, silent now, each in widely separated anticipation; and after them, at first silent likewise, then as it advanced growing noisier and noisier, followed the crowd which had congregated at the Lost Hope saloon.  As on the day of the little landman’s funeral when Captain William Landor had passed up the street of Cayote Centre, ahead where the Indian and the girl advanced not the figure of a human being was in sight, unless one were suspicious and looked closely, not a face; but to the Indian eyes were everywhere.  Every house they passed—­for they were in the residence section now—­had its pair or multiple pairs peering out through the slats of a blind, or, as in a theatre preceding a performance, at the side of a drawn curtain.  Like wildfire the news had spread; like turtles timid women folk had drawn close within their shells; yet everywhere curiosity they could not repress prompted them to take a last look before the storm.  Once, and once only, the pedestrians were interrupted.  Then a house dog came bounding across the lawn to pause at a safe distance and growl a menace; and again the all-noting Indian had observed the cause of the unwonted bravery, had heard the low voice from the kitchen that had urged the beast on.

Thus nearer and nearer that sunny fall morning the storm approached.  Long before this, unobservant though she was, had the girl not been living in the future instead of the present, she would have recognised its coming.  For the pursuers were gaining rapidly now.  They had crossed onto the same street, the principal residence thoroughfare, and were coming as a crowd ever moves:  swiftly, those in the rear exerting themselves to get to the fore, and so again.  Far from silent by this time, the man ahead, the man who never deigned a backward glance, could hear their voices in a perpetual rumble; could distinguish at intervals, interrupting it, above it, a voice commanding, inflaming.  Without seeing, he knew that at last his persecutors had found a commander, a directing spirit—­and as well as he knew his own name he knew who that leader was.  Unsophisticated absolutely in the ways of the world was this man; but in the reading of his fellows he was a master.