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Updated: June 4, 2025
"Reckon he zigzagged back to town to get somethin' he forgot at Conlow's shop," put in Cam. "Didn't find any dead dogs nor children next mornin', did ye, O'mie?" Conlow kept the vilest whiskey ever sold to a poor drink-thirsty Redskin. Everybody knew it except those whom the grand jury called into counsel. I saw my father's brow darken. "Conlow will meet his match one of these days," he muttered.
"When are you going to leave?" It was Jean Pahusca's voice. "Not till I get ready." The tone had that rich softness I heard so often when Father Le Claire chatted with our gang of boys in Springvale, but there was an insolence in it impossible to the priest. O'mie squeezed my hand in the dark and rising quickly he followed them down the stream. The boy never did know what fear meant.
I believe now that Conlow would have killed Jim had he suspected the boy's part in that night's work. I have never broken faith with Jim, although Heaven knows I have had cause enough to wish never to hear the name of Conlow again. One more boy was not in our line, O'mie, still missing from the ranks, and now my heart was heavy.
"O'mie, you heard Dr. Hemingway's prayer last night?" Marjie asked, in a voice that quivered with tears. "Oh, good God! Marjie, the men that's fighting the battles on the frontier, the fire-guards around them prairie homes, they are the salt of the earth." He dropped his head between his hands and groaned. Presently he rose to say good-night. "Shall I do it, little sister?
There was another type of woman whom he misjudged that of Lettie Conlow. In his dictatorial little spirit, he did not give a second thought beyond the use he could make of her in his greedy swooping in of money. "O'mie knows too much," Judson informed his friend. "He's better out of this town. And Lettie, now, I can just do anything with Lettie.
So O'mie philosophized and I sat listening, whittling the while a piece of soft pine, the broken end of a cracker box. "Now, Phil, where did you get that knife?" O'mie asked suddenly. "That's the knife I found in the Hermit's Cave one May day nearly six years ago, when I went down there after a lazy red-headed Irishman. I found it to-day down in my Saratoga trunk. See the name?"
He gave me a swift searching look, and turning, disappeared in the shadows beyond the tents. "I owe him a score for his Arickaree plans," I said to myself, "and his scalp ought to come off to O'mie for his attempt to murder the boy in the Hermit's Cave. Oh, it's a grim game this. I hope it will end here soon." As I turned away I fell against Hard Rope, chief of the Osage scouts.
The blue shadow of the bluff fell upon the Neosho and under its friendly cover we scrambled into our clothes and scudded out of sight among the trees that covered the east bottom land. "Now, how did he ever get to that place, O'mie?" I questioned. "I don't know. But if he can get there, I can too." Poor O'mie! he did not know how true a prophecy he was uttering.
And now, what else?" "Father, when O'mie seemed to be dying, Le Claire told me something of his story one evening. He said you knew it." My father looked grave. "How does this concern you, Phil?" "Only in this. I promised Le Claire I would see that O'mie's case was cared for if he lived and you never came back," I replied. "He is of age now, and if he knows his rights he does not use them."
He knew the Indian's power; and now that the fierce passion of love for a girl and hatred of a rival, were at fever pitch, he dared not think what might follow, neither did he tell us how bitterly he was upbraiding himself for having charged O'mie with secrecy.
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