As Lawson predicted, the very violence of this outburst of racial hatred was its cure.  A reaction set in.  The leaders of Brisbane’s party, with loud shouts, ordered their harriers back to their lairs, while the great leader himself, oblivious to daylight or to darkness, was hurried home to Washington.  The Tetongs returned to their camps and hay-making, the troops drilled peacefully each afternoon in the broiling heat, while Curtis bent to his work again with a desperate sort of energy, as if by so doing he could shorten the long, hot days, which seemed well-nigh interminable after the passing of Elsie and her friends.

In a letter announcing their safe arrival in Washington, Elsie said: 

“I am going to see the President about you, as soon as he returns from the mountains.  Papa is gaining, but takes no interest in anything.  He is pitifully weak, but the doctor thinks he will recover if he will only rest.  His brain is worn out and needs complete freedom from care.  Congress has adjourned finally.  I am told that your enemies expect to secure a court-martial on the charge of usurping the authority of the sheriff.  Osborne says not to worry, for nothing will be done now till the President returns, and he is confident that the department will sustain you ­the fact that the violence you feared did actually take place has robbed your enemies of their power.”

Nevertheless, the fight against the Tetongs and himself went on with ever-increasing rancor during July and August, and each Congressional candidate was sharply interrogated as to his attitude towards the removal bill.  The anti-administration papers boldly said:  “If we win (and we will) we’ll cut the comb of this bantam.  We’ll break his sabre over his back.”

To this the opposition made answer:  “We’re no lovers of the redman, but Captain Curtis is an honorable soldier, doing his duty, and it will not be easy for you, even if victorious, to order a court-martial.”

This half-hearted defence gave courage to those who took the high ground that the time for lynching had gone by.  “The Tetongs have rights which every decent man is bound to respect, no matter how much he personally dislikes the redskin.”

During the last days of August a letter came from Elsie, full of comforting assurances, both public and private, being more intimate and tender in tone than any that had preceded it, and full of sprightly humor too.  It began: 

“MY DEAR SOLDIER, ­I’ve been so busy fighting your enemies I couldn’t write a letter.  I’ve met both the Secretary and the commissioner ­their desks are said to be full of screeds against you ­and I’ve been to see the President!  He wasn’t a bit gallant, but he listened.  He glowered at me (not unkindly) while I told your story.  I’m afraid I didn’t phrase it very well, but he listened.  I brought out all the good points I could think of.  I said:  ’Mr. President, Captain Curtis is the most disinterested man in the Indian service.  He is sacrificing everything for his plans.’  ‘What are his plans?’ he asked, so abruptly that I jumped.  I then spoke learnedly of irrigating ditches and gardens; you would have laughed had you heard me, and I said:  ’If he is ordered back to his regiment, Mr. President, these poor people will be robbed again.’  ’Does Mr. Blank, of New York, endorse Captain Curtis?’ he asked.  I didn’t see what this led to, but I answered that I did not know.  ’He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?’ he asked.  ‘Whom do you mean?’ I said, and my cheeks burned.  Then he smiled.  ’You needn’t worry,’ he said, banging the table with his fist.  ’I’ll keep Captain Curtis where he is if every politician in the State petitions for his removal.’  I liked his wooden cuss-word, and I thanked him and jumped up and hurried home to write this letter.  The Secretary told Osborne that the bill for buying out the settlers would certainly go through next winter, and that your plans were approved by the whole department.  So, you see, you are master of the situation, and can plan as grandly as you wish ­the entire reservation is yours.

“It is still hot here, and now that my ‘lobbying’ is done, I am going to the sea-shore, where papa is, and I know I shall wish you were with me to enjoy it.  I am so sorry for you and Jennie, my heart aches for you.  Think of it!  The cool, beautiful ocean will be singing me to sleep to-night.  I wish I could send you some fruit and some ices; I know you are longing for them.

“I wonder how it will all turn out?  Will you be East this winter?  Perhaps I’ll help you celebrate the opening of your new gardens, next spring.  Wouldn’t you like me to come out and break a bottle of wine over the first plough or water-gate or something?  If you do, maybe I’ll come.  If you write, address me at the Brunswick, Crescent Beach.  I wish you could come and see me here ­you look so handsome in your uniform.”

The soldier’s answer was not a letter, it was a packet!  He began by writing sorrowfully: 

“DEAREST GIRL, ­I fear I shall not be able to get away this winter.  There is so much here that requires my care.  If the bill passes, the people will be stirred up; if it doesn’t pass, the settlers will be uneasy, and I shall be most imperatively necessary here.  Nothing would be sweeter to me than a visit to you at the beach.  As a boy I knew the sea-shore intimately, and to wall the sands with you would be to revive those sweet, careless boy memories and unite them with the deepest emotions of my life ­my love for you, dear one.  It almost makes me willing to resign.  In a sense it would be worth it.  I would resign only I know I am not losing the delight forever ­I am only postponing it a year.

“I have thought pretty deeply on my problem, dearest, and I’ve come to this conclusion:  When two people love each other as we do, neither poverty nor riches ­nothing but duty, should separate them.  Your wealth troubled me at first.  I knew I could not give you the comforts ­not to say luxuries ­you were accustomed to, and I knew that my life as a soldier would always make even a barrack a place of uncertain residence.  I must stand to my guns here till I have won my fight; then I may ask for a transfer to some field where life would not be so hard.  If only there were ways to use your great wealth in helping these people I would rejoice to be your agent in the matter.

“I am a penniless suitor, but a good soldier.  I can say that without egotism.  I think I could have acquired money had I started out that way; of course I cannot do it now.  Perhaps my knowledge and training will come to supplement and give power to your wealth.  I must work.  I am not one to be idle.  If I go on working ­devising ­in my own way, then my self-respect would not be daunted, even though you were worth ten millions instead of one.  I am fitted to be the head of a department ­like that of Forestry, or Civil Engineering.  After my work here is finished I may ask for something of that kind, but I am resolved to do my duty here first.  I like your suggestion about the water-gate.  I hold you to that word, my lady.  One year from now, when my gardens are ready for the sickle, I will have the criers announce a harvest-home festival, and you must come and dance with me among my people, and then, perhaps, I will take a little vacation, and return with you to the East, and be happy with you among the joyous of the earth for a little season.  Beyond that I dare not plan.”

The administration was sustained, and Brisbane’s forces were beaten back.  The better elements of the State, long scattered, disintegrated, and without voice, spoke, and with majesty, rebuking the cruelty, the barbarism, and the blatant assertion of men like Musgrove and Streeter, who had made the State odious.  Even Winters, the sheriff, was defeated, and a fairly humane and decent citizen put in his place, and this change, close down to the people, was most significant of all.  “Now I have hope of the courts,” said Curtis to Maynard.

If the Tetongs did not at once apprehend the peace and comfort which the defeat of Brisbane’s gang and the passage of the purchase bill assured to them, they deeply appreciated the significance of the immediate withdrawal of the settlers.  They rejoiced in full-toned song as their implacable and sleepless enemies drove their heavily laden wagons across the line, leaving their farms, sheds, and houses to the government for the use of the needy tribe.

The urgency of the case being fully pleaded, the whole readjustment was permitted to be made the following spring, and the powers of the agent and his employes were taxed to the uttermost.  When the order actually came to hand, Curtis mounted his horse and rode from camp to camp, carrying the good news; calling the members of each band around him, he told the story of their victory.

“Your days of hunger and cold will soon be over,” he said.  “The white man has gone from the reservation.  The water of the streams, the ploughed fields, are all yours.  Now we must set to work.  Every one will have good ground; all will share alike, and every one must work.  We must show the Great Father at Washington that we are glad of his kindness.  Our friends will not be ashamed when they come to see us, and look upon our corn and wheat.”

Every man, woman, and child did as they had promised.  They laid hands to the duties appointed them, and did so merrily.  They moved at once to the places designated.  A mighty shifting of dwellings took place first of all, and when this was finished they set to work.  They built fences, they dug ditches, they ploughed and they planted, cheery as robins.  Even the gaunt old women lifted their morose faces to the sun and muttered unaccustomed thanks.  The old men no longer sat in complaining council, but talked of the wonderful things about to be.

“Ho! have you heard?” cried one.  “Grayman lives in the house the white man has left; Elk too.  Two Horns sleeps in the house above Grayman, and is not afraid.  Ah, it is wonderful!”

The more thoughtful dwelt in imagination on the reservation completely fenced, and saw the hills swarming with cattle as in the olden time it swarmed with the wild, black buffalo.  They helped at the gardens, these old men, and as they rested on their hoes and listened to the laughter of the women and children, they said one to the other:  “Our camp is as it was in the days when game was plenty.  Every one is smiling.  Our worst days are over.  The white man’s road is very long, and runs into a strange country, but while Swift Eagle leads we follow.”

There was commotion in every corral, where long-haired men in leggings and with feathered ornaments in their hats, were awkwardly breaking fiery ponies to drive, for teams were in sharp demand.  The young men who formerly raced horses, for lack of other things to do, and in order not to die of inertness, now became the hilarious teamsters of each valley.  Every person, white or red, who could give instruction in ditching and planting, was employed each hour of the day.  The various camps were as busy as ant-hills, and as full of cheer as a flock of magpies.

Curtis was everywhere, superintending the moving of barns, the building of cabins, and the laying out of lands.  Each night he returned to his bed so tired he could not lie flat enough, but happy in the knowledge that some needed and permanent improvement had that day been made.  Lawson, faithful to his post, came on from Washington, and was a comfort in ways less material than wielding a hoe.  He went about encouraging the people at their work, and his words had the quality of a poem.

“You see how it is!” he said.  “You need not despair.  It is not true that the redmen are to vanish from the earth.  They are now to be happy and have plenty of food.  The white people, at last, have found out the way to help you.”

Maynard got a short leave of absence, and came over to see “the hustle,” as he called it, and to visit Jennie, who still refused to leave her post, though she had practically consented to his proposal.  “We will see,” she had said.  “If George marries, then I will feel free to go with you; but not now.”

Maynard expressed the same astonishment as ever.  “A man may fight a people a lifetime and never really know ’em.  Now I consider it marvellous the way these devils work.”

Calvin, after his recovery, came seldom to the agency.  He recognized the power and the fitness of Captain Maynard’s successful courtship, and though Jennie wrote twice inviting him to call, he did not come, and did not even reply till she had almost forgotten her own letters.  In a very erratic and laborious screed he conveyed his regrets.  “I’m powfle bizzy just now.  The old man is gone East, an’ that thros all the work of the ranch onto me.  Ime just as mutch obliged.”  Jennie did not laugh at this letter; she put it away with a sigh ­“Poor boy!”