Then the mechanical piano which had stopped during the speech-making suddenly started up with a loud twang of “Under the Bamboo Tree.”  Two Indian boys laughed and started on a run for the merry-go-round and the crowd followed after.

Billy got down from his box with a sigh of relief.  “That might have been an ugly moment,” he said, “if Charlie hadn’t seen you.”

“The poor things!  Oh, Billy, the poor, poor things!” exclaimed Lydia.

Billy nodded.  “It’s all wrong.”

The noise of hawkers began again, but something had gone out of the celebration.  The Indians stood about in groups, talking, Charlie and Chief Wolf the center always of the largest group.

Amos and John joined Billy and Lydia at the machine.  “The war dancing begins at sundown,” said Levine.  “I told the Indian Agent ’twas a risk to let them go on, after this episode.  But he laughs at me.  I don’t like the look of things, though.”

“They aren’t armed?” asked Amos.

“No, but’ve got those pesky bows and arrows we were having them show off with.  I don’t know but what I’d better get you folks home.”

“Shucks,” said Amos, “I wouldn’t let the Indians think they could scare us.  What could they do, poor sickly devils, anyhow?”

“That’s right,” said Billy.  “There’s nothing can happen.  I don’t think Charlie Jackson would stand for any violence.”

“I don’t know about that,” Levine spoke thoughtfully.  “He’s left Doc Fulton and is living on the reservation again.  They always revert.”

“Listen!  Listen!” cried Lydia,

There was a red glow behind the clouds low in the west.  From the foot of the flagpole came a peculiar beat of drum.  A white can beat a drum to carry one through a Gettysburg.  An Indian can beat a drum to carry one’s soul back to the sacrifice of blood upon a stony altar.  This drum beat “magicked” Lydia and Billy.  It was more than a tocsin, more than a dance rhythm, more than the spring call.  They hurried to the roped-off circle round the flagpole, followed by John and Amos.

An Indian in beaded buckskin squatted by the pole, beating a drum.  Above him the flag stirred lazily.  The west was crimson.  The scent of sweet grass was heavy.  There was a breathless interval while the drum seemed to urge Lydia’s soul from her body.

Then there came the cry again followed by a wordless chant.  Into the ring, in all the multicolored glory of beads and paint, swung a dozen moccasined braves.  They moved in a step impossible to describe,—­a step grave, rhythmic, lilting, now slow, three beats to a step, now swift, three steps to a beat.  Old chiefs, half blind with trachoma, scarred with scrofula and decrepit with starvation; young bucks, fresh and still strong, danced side by side, turned by the alchemy of the drum into like things, young and vivid as dawn.