THE SONG OF THE OMAHA
Jean exploded, with a little shiver. "I'd rather hear a band of gray wolves tune up when you're caught out in the breaks and have to ride in the dark. What is that caterwaul? Do you suppose she's on the warpath or anything?"
"Oh, that's just the squaw coming out in her!" Rosemary slammed the door shut so they could not hear so plainly. "She's getting more Injuny every day of her life. I used to try and treat her like a white girl—but you just can't do it, Jean."
"Hiu-hiu-hi-i-ah-h! Hiu-hiu-hi-i-ah-h-h—hia-aa-h-h!"
Jean stood in the middle of the room and listened. "Br-r-r!" she shivered—and one could not blame her. "I wonder if she'd be mad," she drawled, "if I went out and told her to shut up. It sounds as if somebody was dead, or going to die or something. Like Lite says your dog will howl if anything—"
"Oh, for pity sake!" Rosemary pushed her into the living room with make-believe savageness. "I've heard her and Luck sing that last winter. And there's a kind of a teetery dance that goes with
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