At intervals, at the bidding of the braves, squaws arose and moved sedately into the circle.  In their dark dresses they moved about the outer edge of the circle with a side step that scarcely ruffled their skirts.  The west lost its glow.  Fires flashed here and there in the meadow.  In the flickering, changing lights the dance went on and on.  The flag fitfully revealed itself above the melting, gliding, opalescent group about the pole, that by degrees was growing larger as was the constant rim of somber squaws, with their dumb faces Sphinx-like in the half light.

Lydia shivered with excitement.  Billy pulled her arm through his.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered.

“What’s the matter?” exclaimed Lydia.  “Do you think there’s going to be trouble?”

“I don’t know.  It’s just something in the air.  I think we’d better find the folks and get you and Lizzie out of this.”

“I don’t believe they mean any harm,” said Lydia.  “Lots of the whites started home before sunset, anyhow.”

“I wish you had,” replied Billy.  “Gee, here it comes.”

The chant suddenly changed to a yell.  The drum beat quickened, and the great circle of dancing Indians broke and charged the crowd of whites.  A number of them drew revolvers and began firing them into the air.  Others drew taut the great bows they carried.  The whites plunged backward precipitately.

Billy thrust Lydia behind him.  “Don’t move, Lyd,” he cried, pushing aside a threatening buck as he did so.

“Kill ’em whites!” shrieked the squaws.

“Run ’em whites off our reservation!” shouted half a dozen young bucks.

Lydia was trembling but cool.  “Good for them!  Oh, Billy, good for them!” she exclaimed.

He did not reply.  His great body circled about her, with shoulder and elbow buffeting off the surging crowd.  Thus far the whites had taken the proceedings as a joke.  Then a white woman screamed,—­

“Run!  It’s a massacre!”

“Massacre” is a horrifying word to use to whites in an Indian country.  Men and women both took up the cry,—­

“It’s a massacre!  Run!”

And the great crowd bolted.

Like pursuing wolves, the Indians followed, beating the laggards with their bows, shouting exultantly.  Billy caught Lydia round the waist and held her in front of him as well as he could, and for a few moments the rush of the mob carried them on.

Then Lydia heard Billy’s voice in her ear.  “If this isn’t stopped, it will be a massacre.  We’ve got to find Charles Jackson.”

“We may be killed trying to find him!” Lydia cried.

“We’ve got to make a try for it, anyhow,” replied Billy.  “Brace your shoulders back against my chest.  I’ll try to stop.”

They succeeded in holding themselves steadily for a moment against the mob and in that moment, Billy caught a screaming squaw by the arm.