The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Prairie Chief, by R.M. Ballantyne

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Title: The Prairie Chief

Author: R.M. Ballantyne

Release Date: June 6, 2007 [EBook #21694]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRAIRIE CHIEF ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




THE PRAIRIE CHIEF, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.



CHAPTER ONE.

THE ALARM.

Whitewing was a Red Indian of the North American prairies.  Though not a
chief of the highest standing, he was a very great man in the estimation
of his tribe, for, besides being possessed of qualities which are highly
esteemed among all savages--such as courage, strength, agility, and the
like--he was a deep thinker, and held speculative views in regard to the
Great Manitou (God), as well as the ordinary affairs of life, which
perplexed even the oldest men of his tribe, and induced the younger men
to look on him as a profound mystery.

Indeed the feelings of the latter towards Whitewing amounted almost to
veneration, for while, on the one hand, he was noted as one of the most
fearless among the braves, and a daring assailant of that king of the
northern wilderness, the grizzly bear, he was, on the other hand, modest
and retiring--never boasted of his prowess, disbelieved in the principle
of revenge, which to most savages is not only a pleasure but a duty, and
refused to decorate his sleeves or leggings with the scalp-locks of his
enemies.  Indeed he had been known to allow more than one enemy to
escape from his hand in time of war when he might easily have killed
him.  Altogether, Whitewing was a monstrous puzzle to his fellows, and
much beloved by many of them.

The only ornament which he allowed himself was the white wing of a
ptarmigan.  Hence his name.  This symbol of purity was bound to his
forehead by a band of red cloth wrought with the quills of the
porcupine.  It had been made for him by a dark-eyed girl whose name was
an Indian word signifying "light heart."  But let it not be supposed
that Lightheart's head was like her heart.  On the contrary, she had a
good sound brain, and, although much given to laughter, jest, and
raillery among her female friends, would listen with unflagging
patience, and profound solemnity, to her lover's soliloquies in
reference to things past, present, and to come.

One of the peculiarities of Whitewing was that he did not treat women as
mere slaves or inferior creatures.  His own mother, a wrinkled, brown
old thing resembling a piece of singed shoe-leather, he loved with a
tenderness not usual in North American Indians, some tribes of whom have
a tendency to forsake their aged ones, and leave them to perish rather
than be burdened with them.  Whitewing also thought that his betrothed
was fit to hold intellectual converse with him, in which idea he was not
far wrong.

At the time we introduce him to the reader he was on a visit to the
Indian camp of Lightheart's tribe in Clearvale, for the purpose of
claiming his bride.  His own tribe, of which the celebrated old warrior
Bald Eagle was chief, dwelt in a valley at a considerable distance from
the camp referred to.

There were two other visitors at the Indian camp at that time.  One was
a Wesleyan missionary who had penetrated to that remote region with a
longing desire to carry the glad tidings of salvation in Jesus to the
red men of the prairie.  The other was a nondescript little white
trapper, who may be aptly described as a mass of contradictions.  He was
small in stature, but amazingly strong; ugly, one-eyed, scarred in the
face, and misshapen; yet wonderfully attractive, because of a sweet
smile, a hearty manner, and a kindly disposition.  With the courage of
the lion, Little Tim, as he was styled, combined the agility of the
monkey and the laziness of the sloth.  Strange to say, Tim and Whitewing
were bosom friends, although they differed in opinion on most things.

"The white man speaks again about Manitou to-day," said the Indian,
referring to the missionary's intention to preach, as he and Little Tim
concluded their midday meal in the wigwam that had been allotted to
them.

"It's little I cares for that," replied Tim curtly, as he lighted the
pipe with which he always wound up every meal.

Of course both men spoke in the Indian language, but that being probably
unknown to the reader, we will try to convey in English as nearly as
possible the slightly poetical tone of the one and the rough Backwoods'
style of the other.

"It seems strange to me," returned the Indian, "that my white brother
thinks and cares so little about his Manitou.  He thinks much of his
gun, and his traps, and his skins, and his powder, and his friend, but
cares not for Manitou, who gave him all these--all that he possesses."

"Look 'ee here, Whitewing," returned the trapper, in his matter-of-fact
way, "there's nothing strange about it.  I see you, and I see my gun and
these other things, and can handle 'em; but I don't know nothin' about
Manitou, and I don't see him, so what's the good o' thinkin' about him?"

Instead of answering, the red man looked silently and wistfully up into
the blue sky, which could be seen through the raised curtain of the
wigwam.  Then, pointing to the landscape before them, he said in subdued
but earnest tones, "I see him in the clouds--in the sun, and moon, and
stars; in the prairies and in the mountains; I hear him in the singing
waters and in the winds that scatter the leaves, and I feel him here."

Whitewing laid his hand on his breast, and looked in his friend's face.

"But," he continued sadly, "I do not understand him, he whispers so
softly that, though I hear, I cannot comprehend.  I wonder why this is
so."

"Ay, that's just it, Whitewing," said the trapper.  "We can't make it
out nohow, an' so I just leaves all that sort o' thing to the parsons,
and give my mind to the things that I understand."

"When Little Tim was a very small boy," said the Indian, after a few
minutes' meditation, "did he understand how to trap the beaver and the
martin, and how to point the rifle so as to carry death to the grizzly
bear?"

"Of course not," returned the trapper; "seems to me that that's a
foolish question."

"But," continued the Indian, "you came to know it at last?"

"I should just think I did," returned the trapper, a look of
self-satisfied pride crossing his scarred visage as he thought of the
celebrity as a hunter to which he had attained.  "It took me a goodish
while, of course, to circumvent it all, but in time I got to be--well,
you know what, an' I'm not fond o' blowin' my own trumpet."

"Yes; you came to it at last," repeated Whitewing, "by giving your mind
to things that at first you _did not understand_."

"Come, come, my friend," said Little Tim, with a laugh; "I'm no match
for you in argiment, but, as I said before, I don't understand Manitou,
an' I don't see, or feel, or hear him, so it's of no use tryin'."

"What my friend knows not, another may tell him," said Whitewing.  "The
white man says he knows Manitou, and brings a message from him.  Three
times I have listened to his words.  They seem the words of truth.  I go
again to-day to hear his message."

The Indian stood up as he spoke, and the trapper also rose.

"Well, well," he said, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, "I'll go too,
though I'm afeared it won't be o' much use."

The sermon which the man of God preached that day to the Indians was
neither long nor profound, but it was delivered with the intense
earnestness of one who thoroughly believes every word he utters, and
feels that life and death may be trembling in the balance with those who
listen.  It is not our purpose to give this sermon in detail, but merely
to show its influence on Whitewing, and how it affected the stirring
incidents which followed.

Already the good man had preached three times the simple gospel of Jesus
to these Indians, and with so much success that some were ready to
believe, but others doubted, just as in the days of old.  For the
benefit of the former, he had this day chosen the text, "Let us run with
patience the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus."  Whitewing
had been much troubled in spirit.  His mind, if very inquiring, was also
very sceptical.  It was not that he would not--but that he could not--
receive anything unless _convinced_.  With a strong thirst after truth,
he went to hear that day, but, strange to say, he could not fix his
attention.  Only one sentence seemed to fasten firmly on his memory: "It
is the Spirit that quickeneth."  The text itself also made a profound
impression on him.

The preacher had just concluded, and was about to raise his voice in
prayer, when a shout was heard in the distance.  It came from a man who
was seen running over the prairie towards the camp, with the desperate
haste of one who runs for his life.

All was at once commotion.  The men sprang up, and, while some went out
to meet the runner, others seized their weapons.  In a few seconds a
young man with bloodshot eyes, labouring chest, and streaming brow burst
into their midst, with the news that a band of Blackfoot warriors, many
hundred strong, was on its way to attack the camp of Bald Eagle; that he
was one of that old chief's braves, and was hasting to give his tribe
timely warning, but that he had run so far and so fast as to be quite
unable to go another step, and had turned aside to borrow a horse, or
beg them to send on a fresh messenger.

"_I_ will go," said Whitewing, on hearing this; "and my horse is ready."

He wasted no more time with words, but ran towards the hollow where his
steed had been hobbled, that is, the two front legs tied together so as
to admit of moderate freedom without the risk of desertion.

He was closely followed by his friend Little Tim, who, knowing well the
red man's staid and self-possessed character, was somewhat surprised to
see by his flashing eyes and quick breathing that he was unusually
excited.

"Whitewing is anxious," he said, as they ran together.

"The woman whom I love better than life is in Bald Eagle's camp," was
the brief reply.

"Oho!" thought Little Tim, but he spoke no word, for he knew his friend
to be extremely reticent in regard to matters of the heart.  For some
time he had suspected him of what he styled a weakness in that organ.
"Now," thought he, "I know it."

"Little Tim will go with me?" asked the Indian, as they turned into the
hollow where the horses had been left.

"Ay, Whitewing," answered the trapper, with a touch of enthusiasm;
"Little Tim will stick to you through thick and thin, as long as--"

An exclamation from the Indian at that moment stopped him, for it was
discovered that the horses were not there.  The place was so open that
concealment was not possible.  The steeds of both men had somehow got
rid of their hobbles and galloped away.

A feeling of despair came over the Indian at this discovery.  It was
quickly followed by a stern resolve.  He was famed as being the fleetest
and most enduring brave of his tribe.  He would _run_ home.

Without saying a word to his friend, he tightened his belt, and started
off like a hound loosed from the leash.  Little Tim ran a few hundred
yards after him at top speed, but suddenly pulled up.

"Pooh!  It's useless," he exclaimed.  "I might as well run after a
streak o' greased lightnin'.  Well, well, women have much to answer for!
Who'd iver have thowt to see Whitewing shook off his balance like that?
It strikes me I'll sarve him best by lookin' after the nags."

While the trapper soliloquised thus he ran back to the camp to get one
of the Indian horses, wherewith to go off in search of his own and that
of his friend.  He found the Indians busy making preparations to ride to
the rescue of their Bald Eagle allies; but quick though these sons of
the prairie were, they proved too slow for Little Tim, who leaped on the
first horse he could lay hold of, and galloped away.

Meanwhile Whitewing ran with the fleet, untiring step of a trained
runner whose heart is in his work; but the way was long, and as evening
advanced even his superior powers began to fail a little.  Still he held
on, greatly overtaxing his strength.  Nothing could have been more
injudicious in a prolonged race.  He began to suspect that it was
unwise, when he came to a stretch of broken ground, which in the
distance was traversed by a range of low hills.  As he reached these he
reduced the pace a little, but while he was clambering up the face of a
rather precipitous cliff, the thought of the Blackfoot band and of the
much-loved one came into his mind; prudence went to the winds, and in a
moment he was on the summit of the cliff, panting vehemently--so much
so, indeed, that he felt it absolutely necessary to sit down for a few
moments to rest.

While resting thus, with his back against a rock, in the attitude of one
utterly worn out, part of the missionary's text flashed into his mind:
"the race that is set before us."

"Surely," he murmured, looking up, "this race is set before me.  The
object is good.  It is my duty as well as my desire."

The thought gave an impulse to his feelings; the impulse sent his young
blood careering, and, springing up, he continued to run as if the race
had only just begun.  But ere long the pace again began to tell,
producing a sinking of the heart, which tended to increase the evil.
Hour after hour had passed without his making any perceptible abatement
in the pace, and the night was now closing in.  This however mattered
not, for the full moon was sailing in a clear sky, ready to relieve
guard with the sun.  Again the thought recurred that he acted unwisely
in thus pressing on beyond his powers, and once more he stopped and sat
down.

This time the text could not be said to flash into his mind, for while
running, it had never left him.  He now deliberately set himself to
consider it, and the word "patience" arrested his attention.

"Let us run with patience," he thought.  "I have not been patient.  But
the white man did not mean this kind of race at all; he said it was the
whole race of life.  Well, if so, _this_ is part of that race, and it
_is_ set before me.  Patience! patience!  I will try."

With childlike simplicity the red man rose and began to run slowly.  For
some time he kept it up, but as his mind reverted to the object of his
race his patience began to ooze out.  He could calculate pretty well the
rate at which the Blackfoot foes would probably travel, and knowing the
exact distance, perceived that it would be impossible for him to reach
the camp before them, unless he ran all the way at full speed.  The very
thought of this induced him to put on a spurt, which broke him down
altogether.  Stumbling over a piece of rough ground, he fell with such
violence that for a moment or two he lay stunned.  Soon, however, he was
on his legs again, and tried to resume his headlong career, but felt
that the attempt was useless.  With a deep irrepressible groan, he sank
upon the turf.

It was in this hour of his extremity that the latter part of the
preacher's text came to his mind: "looking unto Jesus."

Poor Whitewing looked upwards, as if he half expected to see the Saviour
with the bodily eye, and a mist seemed to be creeping over him.  He was
roused from this semi-conscious state by the clattering of horses'
hoofs.

The Blackfoot band at once occurred to his mind.  Starting up, he hid
behind a piece of rock.  The sounds drew nearer, and presently he saw
horsemen passing him at a considerable distance.  How many he could not
make out.  There seemed to be very few.  The thought that it might be
his friend the trapper occurred, but if he were to shout, and it should
turn out to be foes, not only would his own fate but that of his tribe
be sealed.  The case was desperate; still, anything was better than
remaining helplessly where he was.  He uttered a sharp cry.

It was responded to at once in the voice of Little Tim, and next moment
the faithful trapper galloped towards Whitewing leading his horse by the
bridle.

"Well, now, this is good luck," cried the trapper, as he rode up.

"No," replied the Indian gravely, "it is not _luck_."

"Well, as to that, I don't much care what you call it--but get up.  Why,
what's wrong wi' you?"

"The run has been very long, and I pressed forward impatiently, trusting
too much to my own strength.  Let my friend help me to mount."

"Well, now I come to think of it," said the trapper, as he sprang to the
ground, "you have come a tremendous way--a most awful long way--in an
uncommon short time.  A fellow don't think o' that when he's mounted, ye
see.  There now," he added, resuming his own seat in the saddle, "off we
go.  But there's no need to overdrive the cattle; we'll be there in good
time, I warrant ye, for the nags are both good and fresh."

Little Tim spoke the simple truth, for his own horse which he had
discovered along with that of his friend some time after parting from
him, was a splendid animal, much more powerful and active than the
ordinary Indian horses.  The steed of Whitewing was a half-wild creature
of Spanish descent, from the plains of Mexico.

Nothing more was spoken after this.  The two horsemen rode steadily on
side by side, proceeding with long but not too rapid strides over the
ground: now descending into the hollows, or ascending the gentle
undulations of the plains; anon turning out and in to avoid the rocks
and ruts and rugged places; or sweeping to right or left to keep clear
of clumps of stunted wood and thickets, but never for a moment drawing
rein until the goal was reached, which happened very shortly before the
break of day.

The riding was absolute rest to Whitewing, who recovered strength
rapidly as they advanced.

"There is neither sight nor sound of the foe here," murmured the Indian.

"No, all safe!" replied the trapper in a tone of satisfaction, as they
cantered to the summit of one of the prairie waves, and beheld the
wigwams of Bald Eagle shining peacefully in the moonlight on the plain
below.



CHAPTER TWO.

THE SURPRISE AND COMBAT.

How frequently that "slip 'twixt the cup and the lip" is observed in the
affairs of this life!  Little Tim, the trapper, had barely pronounced
the words "All safe," when an appalling yell rent the air, and a cloud
of dark forms was seen to rush over the open space that lay between the
wigwams of the old chief Bald Eagle and a thicket that grew on its
westward side.

The Blackfoot band had taken the slumbering Indians completely by
surprise, and Whitewing had the mortification of finding that he had
arrived just a few minutes too late to warn his friends.  Although Bald
Eagle was thus caught unprepared, he was not slow to meet the enemy.
Before the latter had reached the village, all the fighting men were up,
and armed with bows, scalping-knives, and tomahawks.  They had even time
to rush towards the foe, and thus prevent the fight from commencing in
the midst of the village.

The world is all too familiar with the scenes that ensued.  It is not
our purpose to describe them.  We detest war, regarding it in
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred as unnecessary.  Sufficient to say
here that the overwhelming numbers of the Blackfoot Indians were too
much for their enemies.  They soon began to overpower and drive them
back towards the wigwams, where the poor women and children were huddled
together in terror.

Before this point had arrived, however, Whitewing and Little Tim were
galloping to the rescue.  The former knew at a glance that resistance on
the part of his friends would be hopeless.  He did not therefore gallop
straight down to the field of battle to join them, but, turning sharply
aside with his friend, swept along one of the bottoms or hollows between
the undulations of the plain, where their motions could not be seen as
they sped along.  Whitewing looked anxiously at Little Tim, who,
observing the look, said:--

"I'm with 'ee, Whitewing, niver fear."

"Does my brother know that we ride to death?" asked the Indian in an
earnest tone.

"Yer brother don't know nothin' o' the sort," replied the trapper, "and,
considerin' your natur', I'd have expected ye to think that Manitou
might have some hand in the matter."

"The white man speaks wisely," returned the chief, accepting the reproof
with a humbled look.  "We go in His strength."

And once again the latter part of the preacher's text seemed to shoot
through the Indian's brain like a flash of light--"looking unto Jesus."

Whitewing was one of those men who are swift to conceive and prompt in
action.  Tim knew that he had a plan of some sort in his head, and,
having perfect faith in his capacity, forbore to advise him, or even to
speak.  He merely drew his hunting-knife, and urged his steed to its
utmost speed, for every moment of time was precious.  The said
hunting-knife was one of which Little Tim was peculiarly fond.  It had
been presented to him by a Mexican general for conspicuous gallantry in
saving the life of one of his officers in circumstances of extreme
danger.  It was unusually long and heavy, and, being double-edged, bore
some resemblance to the short, sword of the ancient Romans.

"It'll do some execution before I go down," thought Tim, as he regarded
the bright blade with an earnest look.

But Tim was wrong.  The blade was not destined to be tarnished that day.

In a very few minutes the two horsemen galloped to the thicket which had
concealed the enemy.  Entering this they dashed through it as fast as
possible until they reached the other side, whence they could see the
combatants on the plain beyond.  All along they had heard the shouts and
yells of battle.

For one moment Whitewing drew up to breathe his gallant steed, but the
animal was roused by that time, and it was difficult to restrain him.
His companion's horse was also nearly unmanageable.

"My brother's voice is strong.  Let him use it well," said the chief
abruptly.

"Ay, ay," replied the little trapper, with an intelligent chuckle; "go
ahead, my boy.  I'll give it out fit to bu'st the bellows."

Instantly Whitewing shot from the wood, like the panther rushing on his
prey, uttering at the same time the tremendous war-cry of his tribe.
Little Tim followed suit with a roar that was all but miraculous in its
tone and character, and may be described as a compound of the
steam-whistle and the buffalo bull, only with something about it
intensely human.  It rose high above the din of battle.  The combatants
heard and paused.  The two horsemen were seen careering towards them
with furious gesticulations.  Red Indians seldom face certain death.
The Blackfoot men knew that an attack by only two men would be sheer
insanity; the natural conclusion was that they were the leaders of a
band just about to emerge from the thicket.  They were thus taken in
rear.  A panic seized them, which was intensified when Little Tim
repeated his roar and flourished the instrument of death, which he
styled his "little carving-knife."  The Blackfeet turned and fled right
and left, scattering over the plains individually and in small groups,
as being the best way of baffling pursuit.

With that sudden access of courage which usually results from the
exhibition of fear in a foe, Bald Eagle's men yelled and gave chase.
Bald Eagle himself, however, had the wisdom to call them back.

At a council of war, hastily summoned on the spot, he said--

"My braves, you are a parcel of fools."

Clearing his throat after this plain statement, either for the purpose
of collecting his thoughts or giving his young warriors time to weigh
and appreciate the compliment, he continued--

"You chase the enemy as thoughtlessly as the north wind chases the
leaves in autumn.  My wise chief Whitewing, and his friend Leetil Tim--
whose heart is big, and whose voice is bigger, and whose scalping-knife
is biggest of all--have come to our rescue _alone_.  Whitewing tells me
there is no one at their backs.  If our foes discover their mistake,
they will turn again, and the contempt which they ought to pour on
themselves because of their own cowardice they will heap on _our_ heads,
and overwhelm us by their numbers--for who can withstand numbers?  They
will scatter us like small dust before the hurricane.  Waugh!"

The old man paused for breath, for the recent fight had taken a good
deal out of him, and the assembled warriors exclaimed "Waugh!" by which
they meant to express entire approval of his sentiments.  "Now it is my
counsel," he continued, "that as we have been saved by Whitewing, we
should all shut our mouths, and hear what Whitewing has got to say."

Bald Eagle sat down amid murmurs of applause, and Whitewing arose.

There was something unusually gentle in the tone and aspect of the young
chief on this occasion.

"Our father, the ancient one who has just spoken words of wisdom," he
said, stretching forth his right hand, "has told you the truth, yet not
quite the truth.  He is right when he says that Leetil Tim and I have
come to your rescue, but he is wrong when he says we come alone.  It is
true that there are no men at our backs to help us, but is not Manitou
behind us--in front--around?  It was Manitou who sent us here, and it
was He who gave us the victory."

Whitewing paused, and there were some exclamations of approval, but they
were not so numerous or so decided as he could have wished, for red men
are equally unwilling with white men to attribute their successes
directly to their Creator.

"And now," he continued, "as Bald Eagle has said, if our foes find out
their mistake, they will, without doubt, return.  We must therefore take
up our goods, our wives, and our little ones, and hasten to meet our
brothers of Clearvale, who are even now on their way to help us.  Our
band is too small to fight the Blackfeet, but united with our friends,
and with Manitou on our side for our cause is just, we shall be more
than a match, for them.  I counsel, then, that we raise the camp without
delay."

The signs of approval were much more decided at the close of this brief
address, and the old chief again rose up.

"My braves," he said, "have listened to the words of wisdom.  Let each
warrior go to his wigwam and get ready.  We quit the camp when the sun
stands there."

He printed to a spot in the sky where the sun would be shining about an
hour after daybreak, which was already brightening the eastern sky.

As he spoke the dusky warriors seemed to melt from the scene as if by
magic, and ere long the whole camp was busy packing up goods, catching
horses, fastening on dogs little packages suited to their size and
strength, and otherways making preparation for immediate departure.

"Follow me," said Whitewing to Little Tim, as he turned like the rest to
obey the orders of the old chief.

"Ay, it's time to be lookin' after her," said Tim, with something like a
wink of one eye, but the Indian was too much occupied with his own
thoughts to observe the act or appreciate the allusion.  He strode
swiftly through the camp.

"Well, well," soliloquised the trapper as he followed, "I niver did
expect to see Whitewing in this state o' mind.  He's or'narily sitch a
cool, unexcitable man.  Ah! women, you've much to answer for!"

Having thus apostrophised the sex, he hurried on in silence, leaving his
horse to the care of a youth, who also took charge of Whitewing's steed.

Close to the outskirts of the camp stood a wigwam somewhat apart from
the rest.  It belonged to Whitewing.  Only two women were in it at the
time the young Indian chief approached.  One was a good-looking young
girl, whose most striking feature was her large, earnest-looking, dark
eyes.  The other was a wrinkled old woman, who might have been any age
between fifty and a hundred, for a life of exposure and hardship,
coupled with a somewhat delicate constitution, had dried her up to such
an extent that, when asleep, she might easily have passed for an
Egyptian mummy.  One redeeming point in the poor old thing was the fact
that all the deep wrinkles in her weather-worn and wigwam-smoked visage
ran in the lines of kindliness.  Her loving character was clearly
stamped upon her mahogany countenance, so that he who ran might easily
read.

With the characteristic reserve of the red man, Whitewing merely gave
the two women a slight look of recognition, which was returned with
equal quietness by the young woman, but with a marked rippling of the
wrinkles on the part of the old.  There still remained a touch of
anxiety caused by the recent fight on both countenances.  It was
dispelled, however, by a few words from Whitewing, who directed the
younger woman to prepare for instant flight.  She acted with prompt,
unquestioning obedience, and at the same time the Indian went to work to
pack up his goods with all speech.  Of course Tim lent efficient aid to
tie up the packs and prepare them for slinging on horse and dog.

"I say, Whitewing," whispered Tim, touching the chief with his elbow,
and glancing at the young woman with approval--for Tim, who was an
affectionate fellow and anxious about his friend's welfare, rejoiced to
observe that the girl was obedient and prompt as well as pretty--"I say,
is that her?"

Whitewing looked with a puzzled expression at his friend.

"Is that _her_--_the_ girl, you know?" said Little Tim, with a series of
looks and nods which were intended to convey worlds of deep meaning.

"She is my sister--Brighteyes," replied the Indian quietly, as he
continued his work.

"Whew!" whistled the trapper.  "Well, well," he murmured in an
undertone, "you're on the wrong scent this time altogether, Tim.  Ye
think yerself a mighty deal cliverer than ye are.  Niver mind, the one
that he says he loves more nor life'll turn up soon enough, no doubt.
But I'm real sorry for the old 'un," he added in an undertone, casting a
glance of pity on the poor creature, who bent over the little fire in
the middle of the tent, and gazed silently yet inquiringly at what was
going on.  "She'll niver be able to stand a flight like this.  The mere
joltin' o' the nags 'ud shake her old bones a'most out of her skin.
There are some Redskins now, that would leave her to starve, but
Whitewing'll niver do that.  I know him better.  Now then"--aloud--"have
ye anything more for me to do?"

"Let my brother help Brighteyes to bring up and pack the horses."

"Jist so.  Come along, Brighteyes."

With the quiet promptitude of one who has been born and trained to obey,
the Indian girl followed the trapper out of the wigwam.

Being left alone with the old woman, some of the young chief's reserve
wore off, though he did not descend to familiarity.

"Mother," he said, sitting down beside her and speaking loud, for the
old creature was rather deaf, "we must fly.  The Blackfeet are too
strong for us.  Are you ready?"

"I am always ready to do the bidding of my son," replied this pattern
mother.  "But sickness has made me old before my time.  I have not
strength to ride far.  Manitou thinks it time for me to die.  It is
better for Whitewing to leave me and give his care to the young ones."

"The young ones can take care of themselves," replied the chief somewhat
sternly.  "We know not what Manitou thinks.  It is our business to live
as long as we can.  If you cannot ride, mother, I will carry you.  Often
you have carried me when I could not ride."

It is difficult to guess why Whitewing dropped his poetical language,
and spoke in this matter-of-fact and sharp manner.  Great thoughts had
been swelling in his bosom for some time past, and perchance he was
affected by the suggestion that the cruel practice of deserting the aged
was not altogether unknown in his tribe.  It may be that the supposition
of his being capable of such cruelty nettled him.  At all events, he
said nothing more except to tell his mother to be ready to start at
once.

The old woman herself, who seemed to be relieved that her proposition
was not favourably received, began to obey her son's directions by
throwing a gay-coloured handkerchief over her head, and tying it under
her chin.  She then fastened her moccasins more securely on her feet,
wrapped a woollen kerchief round her shoulders, and drew a large green
blanket around her, strapping it to her person by means of a broad strip
of deerskin.  Having made these simple preparations for whatever journey
lay before her, she warmed her withered old hands over the embers of the
wood fire, and awaited her son's pleasure.

Meanwhile that son went outside to see the preparations for flight
carried into effect.

"We're all ready," said Little Tim, whom he met not far from the wigwam.
"Horses and dogs down in the hollow; Brighteyes an' a lot o' youngsters
lookin' after them.  All you want now is to get hold o' her, and be off;
an' the sooner the better, for Blackfoot warriors don't take long to get
over scares an' find out mistakes.  But I'm most troubled about the old
woman.  She'll niver be able to stand it."

To this Whitewing paid little attention.  In truth, his mind seemed to
be taken up with other thoughts, and his friend was not much surprised,
having come, as we have seen, to the conclusion that the Indian was
under a temporary spell for which woman was answerable.

"Is my horse at hand?" asked Whitewing.

"Ay, down by the creek, all ready."

"And my brother's horse?"

"Ready too, at the same place; but we'll want another good 'un--for
_her_, you know," said Tim suggestively.

"Let the horses be brought to my wigwam," returned Whitewing, either not
understanding or disregarding the last remark.

The trapper was slightly puzzled, but, coming to the wise conclusion
that his friend knew his own affairs best, and had, no doubt, made all
needful preparations, he went off quietly to fetch the horses, while the
Indian returned to the wigwam.  In a few minutes Little Tim stood before
the door, holding the bridles of the two horses.

Immediately afterwards a little Indian boy ran up with a third and
somewhat superior horse, and halted beside him.

"Ha! that's it at last.  The horse for _her_," said the trapper to
himself with some satisfaction; "I knowed that Whitewing would have
everything straight--even though he _is_ in a raither stumped condition
just now."

As he spoke, Brighteyes ran towards the wigwam, and looked in at the
door.  Next moment she went to the steed which Little Tim had, in his
own mind, set aside for "_her_," and vaulted into the saddle as a young
deer might have done, had it taken to riding.

Of course Tim was greatly puzzled, and forced to admit a second time
that he had over-estimated his own cleverness, and was again off the
scent.  Before his mind had a chance of being cleared up, the skin
curtain of the wigwam was raised, and Whitewing stepped out with a
bundle in his arms.  He gave it to Little Tim to hold while he mounted
his somewhat restive horse, and then the trapper became aware--from
certain squeaky sounds, and a pair of eyes that glittered among the
folds of the bundle that he held the old woman in his arms!

"I say, Whitewing," he said remonstratively, as he handed up the bundle,
which the Indian received tenderly in his left arm, "most of the camp
has started.  In quarter of an hour or so there'll be none left.  Don't
'ee think it's about time to look after _her_?"

Whitewing looked at the trapper with a perplexed expression--a look
which did not quite depart after his friend had mounted, and was riding
through the half-deserted camp beside him.

"Now, Whitewing," said the trapper, with some decision of tone and
manner, "I'm quite as able as you are to carry that old critter.  If
you'll make her over to me, you'll be better able to look after _her_,
you know.  Eh?"

"My brother speaks strangely to-day," replied the chief.  "His words are
hidden from his Indian friend.  What does he mean by `_her_'?"

"Well, well, now, ye are slow," answered Tim; "I wouldn't ha' believed
that anything short o' scalpin' could ha' took away yer wits like that.
Why, of course I mean the woman ye said was dearer to 'ee than life."

"That woman is here," replied the chief gravely, casting a brief glance
down at the wrinkled old visage that nestled upon his breast--"my
mother."

"Whew!" whistled the trapper, opening his eyes very wide indeed.  For
the third time that day he was constrained to admit that he had been
thrown completely off the scent, and that, in regard to cleverness, he
was no better than a "squawkin' babby."

But Little Tim said never a word.  Whatever his thoughts might have been
after that, he kept them to himself, and, imitating his Indian brother,
maintained profound silence as he galloped between him and Brighteyes
over the rolling prairie.



CHAPTER THREE.

THE MASSACRE AND THE CHASE.

The sun was setting when Whitewing and his friend rode into Clearvale.
The entrance to the valley was narrow, and for a short distance the
road, or Indian track, wound among groups of trees and bushes which
effectually concealed the village from their sight.

At this point in the ride Little Tim began to recover from the surprise
at his own stupidity which had for so long a period of time reduced him
to silence.  Riding up alongside of Whitewing, who was a little in
advance of the party, still bearing his mother in his arms, he accosted
him thus--

"I say, Whitewing, the longer I know you, the more of a puzzle you are
to me.  I thowt I'd got about at the bottom o' all yer notions an' ways
by this time, but I find that I'm mistaken."

As no question was asked, the red man deemed no reply needful, but the
faintest symptom of a smile told the trapper that his remark was
understood and appreciated.

"One thing that throws me off the scent," continued Little Tim, "is the
way you Injins have got o' holdin' yer tongues, so that a feller can't
make out what yer minds are after.  Why don't you speak? why ain't you
more commoonicative?"

"The children of the prairie think that wisdom lies in silence,"
answered Whitewing gravely.  "They leave it to their women and white
brothers to chatter out all their minds."

"Humph!  The children o' the prairie ain't complimentary to their white
brothers," returned the trapper.  "Mayhap yer right.  Some of us do talk
a leetle too much.  It's a way we've got o' lettin' off the steam.  I'm
afeard I'd bust sometimes if I didn't let my feelin's off through my
mouth.  But your silent ways are apt to lead fellers off on wrong tracks
when there's no need to.  Didn't I think, now, that you was after a
young woman as ye meant to take for a squaw--and after all it turned out
to be your mother!"

"My white brother sometimes makes mistakes," quietly remarked the
Indian.

"True; but your white brother wouldn't have made the mistake if ye had
told him who it was you were after when ye set off like a mad grizzly
wi' its pups in danger.  Didn't I go tearin' after you neck and crop as
if I was a boy o' sixteen, in the belief that I was helpin' ye in a love
affair?"

"It _was_ a love affair," said the Indian quietly.

"True, but not the sort o' thing that I thowt it was."

"Would you have refused to help me if you had known better?" demanded
Whitewing somewhat sharply.

"Nay, I won't say that," returned Tim, "for I hold that a woman's a
woman, be she old or young, pretty or ugly, an' I'd scorn the man as
would refuse to help her in trouble; besides, as the wrinkled old
critter _is_ your mother, I've got a sneakin' sort o' fondness for her;
but if I'd only known, a deal o' what they call romance would ha' bin
took out o' the little spree."

"Then it is well that my brother did not know."

To this the trapper merely replied, "Humph!"

After a few minutes he resumed in a more confidential tone--

"But I say, Whitewing, has it niver entered into your head to take to
yourself a wife?  A man's always the better of havin' a female companion
to consult with an' talk over things, you know, as well as to make his
moccasins and leggin's."

"Does Little Tim act on his own opinions?" asked the Indian quickly.

"Ha! that's a fair slap in the face," said Tim, with a laugh, "but there
may be reasons for that, you see.  Gals ain't always as willin' as they
should be; sometimes they don't know a good man when they see him.
Besides, I ain't too old yet, though p'raps some of 'em thinks me
raither short for a husband.  Come now, don't keep yer old comrade in
the dark.  Haven't ye got a notion o' some young woman in partikler?"

"Yes," replied the Indian gravely.

"Jist so; I thowt as much," returned the trapper, with a tone and look
of satisfaction.  "What may her name be?"

"Lightheart."

"Ay?  Lightheart.  A good name--specially if she takes after it, as I've
no doubt she do.  An' what tribe does--"

The trapper stopped abruptly, for at that moment the cavalcade swept out
of the thicket into the open valley, and the two friends suddenly beheld
the Indian camp, which they had so recently left, reduced to a smoking
ruin.

It is impossible to describe the consternation of the Indians, who had
ridden so far and so fast to join their friends.  And how shall we speak
of the state of poor Whitewing's feelings?  No sound escaped his
compressed lips, but a terrible light seemed to gleam from his dark
eyes, as, clasping his mother convulsively to his breast with his left
arm, he grasped his tomahawk, and urged his horse to its utmost speed.
Little Tim was at his side in a moment, with the long dagger flashing in
his right hand, while Bald Eagle and his dusky warriors pressed close
behind.

The women and children were necessarily left in the rear; but
Whitewing's sister, Brighteyes, being better mounted than these, kept up
with the men of war.

The scene that presented itself when they reached the camp was indeed
terrible.  Many of the wigwams were burned, some of them still burning,
and those that had escaped the fire had been torn down and scattered
about, while the trodden ground and pools of blood told of the dreadful
massacre that had so recently taken place.  It was evident that the camp
had been surprised, and probably all the men slain, while a very brief
examination sufficed to show that such of the women and children as were
spared had been carried off into slavery.  In every direction outside
the camp were found the scalped bodies of the slain, left as they had
fallen in unavailing defence of home.

The examination of the camp was made in hot haste and profound silence,
because instant action had to be taken for the rescue of those who had
been carried away, and Indians are at all times careful to restrain and
hide their feelings.  Only the compressed lip, the heaving bosom, the
expanding nostrils, and the scowling eyes told of the fires that raged
within.

In this emergency Bald Eagle, who was getting old and rather feeble,
tacitly gave up the command of the braves to Whitewing.  It need
scarcely be said that the young chief acted with vigour.  He with the
trapper having traced the trail of the Blackfoot war-party--evidently a
different band from that which had attacked Bald Eagle's camp--and
ascertained the direction they had taken, divided his force into two
bands, in command of which he placed two of the best chiefs of his
tribe.  Bald Eagle himself agreed to remain with a small force to
protect the women and children.  Having made his dispositions and given
his orders, Whitewing mounted his horse; and galloped a short distance
on the enemy's trail; followed by his faithful friend.  Reining up
suddenly, he said--

"What does my brother counsel?"

"Well, Whitewing, since ye ask, I would advise you to follow yer own
devices.  You've got a good head on your shoulders, and know what's
best."

"Manitou knows what is best," said the Indian solemnly.  "He directs
all.  But His ways are very dark.  Whitewing cannot understand them."

"Still, we must act, you know," suggested the trapper.

"Yes, we must act; and I ask counsel of my brother, because it may be
that Manitou shall cause wisdom and light to flow from the lips of the
white man."

"Well, I don't know as to that, Whitewing, but my advice, whatever it's
worth, is, that we should try to fall on the reptiles in front and rear
at the same time, and that you and I should go out in advance to scout."

"Good," said the Indian; "my plan is so arranged."

Without another word he gave the rein to his impatient horse, and was
about to set off at full speed, when he was arrested by the trapper
exclaiming, "Hold on? here's some one coming after us."

A rider was seen galloping from the direction of the burned camp.  It
turned out to be Brighteyes.

"What brings my sister?" demanded Whitewing.

The girl with downcast look modestly requested leave to accompany them.

Her brother sternly refused.  "It is not woman's part to fight," he
said.

"True, but woman sometimes helps the fighter," replied the girl, not
venturing to raise her eyes.

"Go," returned Whitewing.  "Time may not be foolishly wasted.  The old
ones and the children need thy care."

Without a word Brighteyes turned her horse's head towards the camp, and
was about to ride humbly away when Little Tim interfered.

"Hold on, girl!  I say, Whitewing, she's not so far wrong.  Many a time
has woman rendered good service in warfare.  She's well mounted, and
might ride back with a message or something o' that sort.  You'd better
let her come."

"She may come," said Whitewing, and next moment he was bounding over the
prairie at the full speed of his fiery steed, closely followed by Little
Tim and Brighteyes.

That same night, at a late hour, a band of savage warriors entered a
thicket on the slopes of one of those hills on the western prairies
which form what are sometimes termed the spurs of the Rocky Mountains,
though there was little sign of the great mountain range itself, which
was still distant several days' march from the spot.  A group of wearied
women and children, some riding, some on foot, accompanied the band.  It
was that which had so recently destroyed the Indian village.  They had
pushed on with their prisoners and booty as far and as fast as their
jaded horses could go, in order to avoid pursuit--though, having slain
all the fighting men, there was little chance of that, except in the
case of friends coming to the rescue, which they thought improbable.
Still, with the wisdom of savage warriors, they took every precaution to
guard against surprise.  No fire was lighted in the camp, and sentries
were placed all round it to guard them during the few hours they meant
to devote to much-needed repose.

While these Blackfeet were eating their supper, Whitewing and Little Tim
came upon them.  Fortunately the sharp and practised eyes and intellects
of our two friends were on the alert.  So small a matter as a slight
wavering in the Blackfoot mind as to the best place for encamping
produced an effect on the trail sufficient to be instantly observed.

"H'm! they've took it into their heads here," said Little Tim, "that it
might be advisable to camp an' feed."

Whitewing did not speak at once, but his reining up at the moment his
friend broke silence showed that he too had observed the signs.

"It's always the way," remarked the trapper with a quiet chuckle as he
peered earnestly at the ground which the moon enabled him to see
distinctly, "if a band o' men only mention campin' when they're on the
march they're sure to waver a bit an' spoil the straight, go-ahead run
o' the trail."

"One turned aside to examine yonder bluff," said the Indian, pointing to
a trail which he saw clearly, although it was undistinguishable to
ordinary vision.

"Ay, an' the bluff didn't suit," returned Tim, "for here he rejoins his
friends, an' they go off agin at the run.  No more waverin'.  They'd
fixed their eyes a good bit ahead, an' made up their minds."

"They are in the thicket yonder," said the Indian, pointing to the place
referred to.

"Jist what I was goin' to remark," observed the trapper.  "Now,
Whitewing, it behoves us to be cautious.  Ay, I see your mind an' mine
always jumps togither."

This latter remark had reference to the fact that the Indian had leaped
off his horse and handed the reins to Brighteyes.  Placing his horse
also in charge of the Indian girl, Tim said, as the two set off--

"We have to do the rest on fut, an' the last part on our knees."

By this the trapper meant that he and his friend would have to creep up
to the enemy's camp on hands and knees, but Whitewing, whose mind had
been recently so much exercised on religious matters, at once thought of
what he had been taught about the importance of prayer, and again the
words, "looking unto Jesus," rushed with greater power than ever upon
his memory, so that, despite his anxiety as to the fate of his affianced
bride and the perilous nature of the enterprise in hand, he kept
puzzling his inquiring brain with such difficulties as the absolute
dependence of man on the will and leading of God, coupled with the fact
of his being required to go into vigorous, decisive, and apparently
independent action, trusting entirely to his own resources.

"Mystery," thought the red man, as he and his friend walked swiftly
along, taking advantage of the shelter afforded by every glade, thicket,
or eminence; "all is mystery!"

But Whitewing was wrong, as many men in all ages have been on first
bending their minds to the consideration of spiritual things.  All is
_not_ mystery.  In the dealings of God with man, much, very much, is
mysterious, and by us in this life apparently insoluble; but many
things--especially those things that are of vital importance to the
soul--are as clear as the sun at noonday.  However, our red man was at
this time only beginning to run the spiritual race, and, like many
others, he was puzzled.

But no sign did he show of what was going on within, as he glided along,
bending his keen eyes intently on the Blackfoot trail.

At last they came to the immediate neighbourhood of the spot where it
was rightly conjectured the enemy lay concealed.  Here, as Tim had
foretold, they went upon their knees, and advanced with the utmost
caution.  Coming to a grassy eminence they lay flat down and worked
their way slowly and painfully to the top.

Well was it for them that a few clouds shrouded the moon at that time,
for one of the Blackfoot sentinels had been stationed on that grassy
eminence, and if Whitewing and the trapper had been less expert in the
arts of savage war, they must certainly have been discovered.  As it
was, they were able to draw off in time and reach another part of the
mound where a thick bush effectually concealed them from view.

From this point, when the clouds cleared away, the camp could be clearly
seen in the vale below.  Even the forms of the women and children were
distinguishable, but not their faces.

"It won't be easy to get at them by surprise," whispered the trapper.
"Their position is strong, and they keep a bright lookout; besides, the
moon won't be down for some hours yet--not much before daybreak."

"Whitewing will take the prey from under their very noses," returned the
Indian.

"That won't be easy, but I've no doubt you'll try, an' sure, Little
Tim's the man to back ye, anyhow."

At that moment a slight rustling noise was heard.  Looking through the
bush, they saw the Blackfoot sentinel approaching.  Instantly they sank
down into the grass, where they lay so flat and still that it seemed as
if they had vanished entirely from the scene.

When the sentinel was almost abreast of them, a sound arose from the
camp which caused him to stop and listen.  It was the sound of song.
The missionary--the only _man_ the Blackfoot Indians had not slain--
having finished supper, had gathered some of the women and children
round him, and, after an earnest prayer, had begun a hymn of praise.  At
first the Blackfoot chief was on the point of ordering them to cease,
but as the sweet notes arose he seemed to be spell-bound, and remained a
silent and motionless listener.  The sentinel on the mound also became
like a dark statue.  He had never heard such tones before.

After listening a few minutes in wonder, he walked slowly to the end of
the mound nearest to the singers.

"Now's our chance, Whitewing," said the trapper, rising from his lair.

The Indian made no reply, but descended the slope as carefully as he had
ascended it, followed by his friend.  In a short time they were back at
the spot where the horses had been left in charge of Brighteyes.

Whitewing took his sister aside, and for a few minutes they conversed in
low tones.

"I have arranged it all with Brighteyes," said the Indian, returning to
the trapper.

"Didn't I tell 'ee," said Tim, with a low laugh, "that women was good at
helpin' men in time o' war?  Depend upon it that the sex must have a
finger in every pie; and, moreover, the pie's not worth much that they
haven't got a finger in."

To these remarks the young chief vouchsafed no answer, but gravely went
about making preparations to carry out his plans.

While tying the three horses to three separate trees, so as to be ready
for instant flight, he favoured his friend with a few explanations.

"It is not possible," he said, "to take more than three just now, for
the horses cannot carry more.  But these three Brighteyes will rescue
from the camp, and we will carry them off.  Then we will return with our
braves and have all the rest--if Manitou allows."

The trapper looked at his friend in surprise.  He had never before heard
him make use of such an expression as the last.  Nevertheless, he made
no remark, but while the three were gliding silently over the prairie
again towards the Blackfoot camp he kept murmuring to himself: "You're a
great puzzle, Whitewing, an' I can't make ye out nohow.  Yet I make no
doubt yer right.  Whativer ye do comes right somehow; but yer a great
puzzle--about the greatest puzzle that's comed across my tracks since I
was a squallin' little babby-boy!"



CHAPTER FOUR.

CIRCUMVENTING THE BLACKFEET.

On reaching the neighbourhood of the Blackfoot camp, Whitewing, and his
companions crept to the top of the eminence which overlooked it, taking
care, however, to keep as far away as possible from the sentinel who
still watched there.

Brighteyes proved herself to be quite as expert as her male companions
in advancing like a snake through the long grass, though encumbered with
a blanket wrapped round her shoulders.  The use of this blanket soon
became apparent.  As the three lay prone on their faces looking down at
the camp, from which the sound of voices still arose in subdued murmurs,
the young chief said to his sister--

"Let the signal be a few notes of the song Brighteyes learned from the
white preacher.  Go."

Without a word of reply, the girl began to move gently forward,
maintaining her recumbent position as she went, and gradually, as it
were, melted away.

The moon was still shining brightly, touching every object with pale but
effective lights, and covering hillocks and plains with correspondingly
dark shadows.  In a few minutes Brighteyes had crept past the young
sentinel, and lay within sight--almost within ear shot of the camp.

Much to her satisfaction she observed that the Indians had not bound
their captives.  Even the missionary's hands were free.  Evidently they
thought, and were perhaps justified in thinking, that escape was
impossible, for the horses of the party were all gathered together and
hobbled, besides being under a strong guard; and what chance could women
and children have, out on the plains on foot, against mounted men,
expert to follow the faintest trail?  As for the white man, he was a man
of peace and unarmed, as well as ignorant of warriors' ways.  The
captives were therefore not only unbound, but left free to move about
the camp at will, while some of their captors slept, some fed, and
others kept watch.

The missionary had just finished singing a hymn, and was about to begin
to read a portion of God's Word when one of the women left the group,
and wandered accidentally close to the spot where Brighteyes lay.  It
was Lightheart.

"Sister," whispered Brighteyes.

The girl stopped abruptly, and bent forward to listen, with intense
anxiety depicted on every feature of her pretty brown face.

"Sister," repeated Brighteyes, "sink in the grass and wait."

Lightheart was too well trained in Indian ways to speak or hesitate.  At
once, but slowly, she sank down and disappeared.  Another moment, and
Brighteyes was at her side.

"Sister," she said, "Manitou has sent help.  Listen.  We must be wise
and quick."

From this point she went on to explain in as few words as possible that
three fleet horses were ready close at hand to carry off three of those
who had been taken captive, and that she, Lightheart, must be one of the
three.

"But I cannot, will not, escape," said Lightheart, "while the others
and, the white preacher go into slavery."

To this Brighteyes replied that arrangements had been made to rescue the
whole party, and that she and two others were merely to be, as it were,
the firstfruits of the enterprise.  Still Lightheart objected; but when
her companion added that the plan had been arranged by her affianced
husband, she acquiesced at once with Indian-like humility.

"I had intended," said Brighteyes, "to enter the Blackfoot camp as if I
were one of the captives, and thus make known our plans; but that is not
now necessary.  Lightheart will carry the news; she is wise, and knows
how to act.  Whitewing and Leetil Tim are hid on yonder hillock like
snakes in the grass.  I will return to then, and let Lightheart, when
she comes, be careful to avoid the sentinel there--"

She stopped short, for at the moment a step was heard near them.  It was
that of a savage warrior, whose sharp eye had observed Lightheart quit
the camp, and who had begun to wonder why she did not return.

In another instant Brighteyes flung her blanket round her, whispered to
her friend, "Lie close," sprang up, and, brushing swiftly past the
warrior with a light laugh--as though amused at having been discovered--
ran into camp, joined the group round the missionary, and sat down.
Although much surprised, the captives were too wise to express their
feelings.  Even the missionary knew enough of Indian tactics to prevent
him from committing himself.  He calmly continued the reading in which
he had been engaged, and the Blackfoot warrior returned to his place,
congratulating himself, perhaps, on having interrupted the little plan
of one intending runaway.

Meanwhile Lightheart, easily understanding her friend's motives, crept
in a serpentine fashion to the hillock, where she soon found Whitewing--
to the intense but unexpressed joy of that valiant red man.

"Will Leetil Tim go back with Lightheart to the horses and wait, while
his brother remains here?" said the young chief.

"No, Little Tim _won't_," growled the trapper, in a tone of decision
that surprised his red friend.  "Brighteyes is in the Blackfoot camp,"
he continued, in growling explanation.

"True," returned the Indian, "but Brighteyes will escape; and even if
she fails to do so now, she will be rescued with the others at last."

"She will be rescued with _us_, just _now_," returned Little Tim in a
tone so emphatic that his friend looked at him with an expression of
surprise that was unusually strong for a redskin warrior.  Suddenly a
gleam of intelligence broke from his black eyes, and with the soft
exclamation, "Wah!" he sank flat on the grass again, and remained
perfectly still.

Brighteyes found that it was not all plain sailing when she had mingled
with her friends in the camp.  In the first place, the missionary
refused absolutely to quit the captives.  He would remain with them, he
said, and await God's will and leading.  In the second place, no third
person had been mentioned by her brother, whose chief anxiety had been
for his bride and the white man, and it did not seem to Brighteyes
creditable to quit the camp after all her risk and trouble without some
trophy of her prowess.  In this dilemma she put to herself the question,
"Whom would Lightheart wish me to rescue?"

Now, there were two girls among the captives, one of whom was a bosom
friend of Lightheart; the other was a younger sister.  To these
Brighteyes went, and straightway ordered them to prepare for flight.
They were of course quite ready to obey.  All the preparation needed was
to discard the blankets which Indian women are accustomed to wear as
convenient cloaks by day.  Thus unhampered, the two girls wandered about
the camp, as several of the others had occasionally been doing.
Separating from each other, they got into the outskirts in different
directions.  Meanwhile a hymn had been raised, which facilitated their
plans by attracting the attention of the savage warriors.  High above
the rest, in one prolonged note, the voice of Brighteyes rang out like a
silver flute.

"There's the signal," said Little Tim, as the sweet note fell on his
listening ear.

Rising as he spoke, the trapper glided in a stooping posture down the
side of the hillock, and round the base of it, until he got immediately
behind the youthful sentinel.  Then lying down, and creeping towards him
with the utmost caution, he succeeded in getting so near that he could
almost touch him.  With one cat-like bound, Little Tim was on the
Indian's back, and had him in his arms, while his broad horny hand
covered his mouth, and his powerful forefinger and thumb grasped him
viciously by the nose.

It was a somewhat curious struggle that ensued.  The savage was much
bigger than the trapper, but the trapper was much stronger than the
savage.  Hence the latter made fearful and violent efforts to shake the
former off; while the former made not less fearful, though seemingly not
quite so violent, efforts to hold on.  The red man tried to bite, but
Tim's hand was too broad and hard to be bitten.  He tried to shake his
nose free, but unfortunately his nose was large, and Tim's grip of it
was perfect.  The savage managed to get just enough of breath through
his mouth to prevent absolute suffocation, but nothing more.  He had
dropped his tomahawk at the first onset, and tried to draw his knife,
but Tim's arms were so tight round him that he could not get his hand to
his back, where the knife reposed in his belt.  In desperation he
stooped forward, and tried to throw his enemy over his head; but Tim's
legs were wound round him, and no limpet ever embraced a rock with
greater tenacity than did Little Tim embrace that Blackfoot brave.  Half
choking and wholly maddened, the savage suddenly turned heels over head,
and fell on Tim with a force that ought to have burst him.  But Tim
didn't burst!  He was much too tough for that.  He did not even
complain!

Rising again, a sudden thought seemed to strike the Indian, for he began
to run towards the camp with his foe on his back.  But Tim was prepared
for that.  He untwined one leg, lowered it, and with an adroit twist
tripped up the savage, causing him to fall on his face with tremendous
violence.  Before he could recover, Tim, still covering the mouth and
holding tight to the nose, got a knee on the small of the savage's back
and squeezed it smaller.  At the same time he slid his left hand up to
the savage's windpipe, and compressed it.  With a violent heave, the
Blackfoot sprang up.  With a still more violent heave, the trapper flung
him down, bumped his head against a convenient stone, and brought the
combat to a sudden close.  Without a moment's loss of time, Tim gagged
and bound his adversary.  Then he rose up with a deep inspiration, and
wiped his forehead, as he contemplated him.

"All this comes o' your desire not to shed human blood, Whitewing," he
muttered.  "Well, p'raps you're right--what would ha' bin the use o'
killin' the poor critturs.  But it was a tough job!"--saying which, he
lifted the Indian on his broad shoulders, and carried him away.

While this fight was thus silently going on, hidden from view of the
camp by the hillock, Whitewing crept forward to meet Brighteyes and the
two girls, and these, with Lightheart, were eagerly awaiting the
trapper.  "My brother is strong," said Whitewing, allowing the faintest
possible smile to play for a moment on his usually grave face.

"Your brother is tough," returned Little Tim, rubbing the back of his
head with a rueful look; "an' he's bin bumped about an' tumbled on to
that extent that it's a miracle a whole bone is left in his carcass.
But lend a hand, lad; we've got no time to waste."

Taking the young Blackfoot between them, and followed by the silent
girls, they soon reached the thicket where the horses had been left.
Here they bound their captive securely to a tree, and gave him a drink
of water with a knife pointed at his heart to keep him quiet, after
which they re-gagged him.  Then Whitewing led Lightheart through the
thicket towards his horse, and took her up behind him.  Little Tim took
charge of Brighteyes.  The young sister and the bosom friend mounted the
third horse, and thus paired, they all galloped away.

But the work that our young chief had cut out for himself that night was
only half accomplished.  On reaching the rendezvous which he had
appointed, he found the braves of his tribe impatiently awaiting him.

"My father sees that we have been successful," he said to Bald Eagle,
who had been unable to resist the desire to ride out to the rendezvous
with the fighting men.  "The great Manitou has given us the victory thus
far, as the white preacher said he would."

"My son is right.  Whitewing will be a great warrior when Bald Eagle is
in the grave.  Go and conquer; I will return to camp with the women."

Thus relieved of his charge, Whitewing, who, however, had little desire
to achieve the fame prophesied for him, proceeded to fulfil the prophecy
to some extent.  He divided his force into four bands, with which he
galloped off towards the Blackfoot camp.  On nearing it, he so arranged
that they should attack the camp simultaneously at four opposite points.
Little Tim commanded one of the bands, and he resolved in his own mind
that his band should be the last to fall on the foe.

"Bloodshed _may_ be avoided," he muttered to himself; "an' I hope it
will, as Whitewing is so anxious about it.  Anyhow, I'll do my best to
please him."

Accordingly, on reaching his allotted position, Tim halted his men, and
bided his time.

The moon still shone over prairie and hill, and not a breath of air
stirred blade or leaf.  All in nature was peace, save in the hearts of
savage man.  The Blackfoot camp was buried in slumber.  Only the
sentinels were on the alert.  Suddenly one of these--like the war-horse,
who is said to scent the battle from afar--pricked his ears, distended
his nostrils, and listened.  A low, muffled, thunderous sort of
pattering on the plain in front.  It might be a herd of buffaloes.  The
sentinel stood transfixed.  The humps of buffaloes are large, but they
do not usually attain to the size of men!  The sentinel clapped his hand
to his mouth, and gave vent to a yell which sent the blood spirting
through the veins of all, and froze the very marrow in the bones of
some!  Prompt was the reply and turn-out of the Blackfoot warriors.
Well used to war's alarms, there was no quaking in their bosoms.  They
were well named "braves."

But the noise in the camp prevented them from hearing or observing the
approach of the enemy on the other side till almost too late.  A whoop
apprised the chief of the danger.  He divided his forces, and lost some
of his self-confidence.

"Here comes number three," muttered Little Tim, as he observed the third
band emerge from a hollow on the left.

The Blackfoot chief observed it too, divided his forces again, and lost
more of his self-confidence.

None of the three bands had as yet reached the camp, but they all came
thundering down on it at the same time, and at the same whirlwind pace.

"Now for number four," muttered Little Tim.  "Come boys, an' at 'em!" he
cried, unconsciously paraphrasing the Duke of Wellington's Waterloo
speech.

At the some time he gave utterance to what he styled a Rocky Mountain
trapper's roar, and dashed forward in advance of his men, who, in trying
to imitate the roar, intensified and rather complicated their own yell.

It was the last touch to the Blackfoot chief, who, losing the small
remnant of his self-confidence, literally "sloped" into the long grass,
and vanished, leaving his men to still further divide themselves, which
they did effectually by scattering right and left like small-shot from a
blunderbuss.

Great was the terror of the poor captives while this brief but decisive
action lasted, for although they knew that the assailants were their
friends, they could not be certain of the issue of the combat.
Naturally, they crowded round their only male friend, the missionary.

"Do not fear," he said, in attempting to calm them; "the good Manitou
has sent deliverance.  We will trust in Him."

The dispersion of their foes and the arrival of friends almost
immediately followed these words.  But the friends who arrived were few
in number at first, for Whitewing had given strict orders as to the
treatment of the enemy.  In compliance therewith, his men chased them
about the prairie in a state of gasping terror; but no weapon was used,
and not a man was killed, though they were scattered beyond the
possibility of reunion for at least some days to come.

Before that eventful night was over the victors were far from the scene
of victory on their way home.

"It's not a bad style o' fightin'," remarked Little Tim to his friend as
they rode away; "lots o' fun and fuss without much damage.  Pity we
can't do all our fightin' in that fashion."

"Waugh!" exclaimed Whitewing; but as he never explained what he meant by
"waugh," we must leave it to conjecture.  It is probable, however, that
he meant assent, for he turned aside in passing to set free the
Blackfoot who had been bound to a tree.  That red man, having expected
death, went off with a lively feeling of surprise, and at top speed, his
pace being slightly accelerated by a shot--wide of the mark and at long
range--from Little Tim.

Three weeks after these events a number of Indians were baptised by our
missionary.  Among them were the young chief Whitewing and Lightheart,
and these two were immediately afterwards united in marriage.  Next day
the trapper, with much awkwardness and hesitation, requested the
missionary to unite him and Brighteyes.  The request was complied with,
and thenceforward the white man and the red became more inseparable than
ever.  They hunted and dwelt together--to the ineffable joy of
Whitewing's wrinkled old mother, whose youth seemed absolutely to revive
under the influence of the high-pressure affection brought to bear on a
colony of brown and whitey-brown grand-children by whom she was at last
surrounded.

The doubts and difficulties of Whitewing were finally cleared away.  He
not only accepted fully the Gospel for himself, but became anxious to
commend it to others as the only real and perfect guide in life and
comfort in death.  In the prosecution of his plans, he imitated the
example of his "white father," roaming the prairie and the mountains far
and wide with his friend the trapper, and even venturing to visit some
of the lodges of his old foes the Blackfoot Indians, in his desire to
run earnestly, yet with patience, the race that had been set before
him--"looking unto Jesus."

Full twenty years rolled by, during which no record, was kept of the
sayings or doings of those whose fortunes we have followed thus far.  At
the end of that period, however, striking incidents in their career
brought the most prominent among them again to the front--as the
following chapters will show.



CHAPTER FIVE.

THE MOUNTAIN FORTRESS.

In one of those numerous narrow ravines of the Rocky Mountains which
open out into the rolling prairies of the Saskatchewan there stood some
years ago a log hut, or block-house, such as the roving hunters of the
Far West sometimes erected as temporary homes during the inclement
winter of those regions.

With a view to render the hut a castle of refuge as well as a home, its
builder had perched it close to the edge of a nearly inaccessible cliff
overhanging one of those brawling torrents which carry the melting snows
of the great rocky range into one of the tributaries of the Saskatchewan
river.  On what may be called the land side of the hut there was a
slight breastwork of logs.  It seemed a weak defence truly, yet a
resolute man with several guns and ammunition might have easily held it
against a considerable band of savages.

One fine morning about the time when the leaves of the forest were
beginning to put on their gorgeous autumnal tints, a woman might have
been seen ascending the zigzag path that led to the hut or fortress.

She was young, well formed, and pretty, and wore the Indian costume, yet
there was something in her air and carriage, as well as the nut-brown
colour of her hair, which told that either her father or her mother had
been what the red men term a "pale-face."

With a light, bounding step, very different from that of the ordinary
Indian squaw, she sprang from rock to rock as if in haste, and, climbing
over the breastwork before mentioned, entered the hut.

The interior of the little fortress was naturally characteristic of its
owner.  A leathern capote and leggings hung from a nail in one corner;
in another lay a pile of buffalo robes.  The rough walls were adorned
with antlers of the moose and other deer, from the various branches of
which hung several powder-horns, fire-bags, and bullet-pouches.  Near
the rude fireplace, the chimney of which was plastered outside and in
with mud, was a range of six guns, of various patterns and ages, all of
which, being well polished and oiled, were evidently quite ready for
instant service.  Beside them hung an old cavalry sabre.  Neither table
nor chairs graced the simple mansion; but a large chest at one side
served for the former, and doubtless contained the owner's treasures,
whatever these might be, while three rough stools, with only nine legs
among them, did service for the latter.

The action of the young woman on entering was somewhat suggestive of the
cause of her haste.  Without a moment's delay, she seized a powder-horn
and bullet-pouch, and began to charge the guns, some with ball, others
with slugs, as fast as she could.  There was a cool, quiet celerity in
her proceedings which proved that she was accustomed to the handling of
such weapons.

No one looking upon the scene would have guessed that Softswan, as she
was poetically named, was a bride, at that time in the midst of the
honeymoon.

Yet such was the case.  Her husband being the kindliest, stoutest and
handsomest fellow in all that region had won her heart and hand, had
obtained her parents' consent, had been married in the nearest
settlement by a travelling missionary, and had carried off his pretty
bride to spend the honeymoon in his mountain fortress.  We can scarcely
call it his home, however, for it was only, as we have said, a temporary
residence--the Rocky Mountains, from the Gulf of Mexico to the Arctic
Circle, being his home.

While the Indian bride was engaged in charging the firearms, a
rifle-shot was heard to echo among the surrounding cliffs.  It was
followed by a cry, as if some one had been wounded, and then there arose
that terrible war-whoop of the red men which, once heard, can never be
forgotten, and which inspires even the bravest with feelings of at least
anxiety.

That Softswan was not free from alarm was pretty evident from the
peculiar curl of her pretty eyebrows, but that the sounds did not
unnerve her was also obvious from the quiet though prompt way in which
she gathered up all the loaded firearms, and bore them swiftly to the
breastwork in front of the cabin.  Arranging the guns in a row at her
side, so as to be handy, the girl selected one, laid it on the parapet,
and carefully examined the priming.  Having satisfied herself that it
was all right, she cocked the piece, and quietly awaited the issue of
events.

The weapon that Softswan had selected was not picked up at haphazard.
It was deliberately chosen as being less deadly than the others, the
charge being a few slugs or clippings of lead, which were not so apt to
kill as rifle bullets; for Softswan, as her name might suggest was
gentle of spirit, and was influenced by none of that thirst for blood
and revenge which characterised some of her Indian relatives.

After a time the poor girl's anxiety increased, for well she knew that a
whoop and a cry such as she had heard were the sure precursors of
something worse.  Besides, she had seen the footprints of Blackfoot
Indians in the valley below, and she knew from their appearance that
those who had made them were on the war-path, in which circumstances
savages usually dismiss any small amount of tender mercies with which
they may have been naturally endowed.

"Oh why, why you's not come home, Big Tim?" she exclaimed at last, in
broken English.

It may be well to explain at once that Big Tim, who was the only son of
Little Tim, had such a decided preference for the tongue of his white
father, that he had taught it to his bride, and refused to converse with
her in any other, though he understood the language of his mother
Brighteyes quite as well as English.

If Big Tim had heard the pathetic question, he would have flown to the
rescue more speedily than any other hunter of the Rocky Mountains, for
he was the swiftest runner of them all; but unfortunately he was too far
off at that moment to hear; not too far off, however, to hear the shot
and cry which had alarmed his bride.

From the position which Softswan occupied she could see and command
every portion of the zigzag approach to the hut so that no one could
reach her without being completely exposed to her fire if she were
disposed to dispute the passage.  As we have said, the hut stood on a
cliff which overhung the torrent that brawled through the gorge, so that
she was secure from attack in rear.

In a few minutes another rifle-shot was heard, and the war-whoop was
repeated, this time much nearer than before.

With compressed lips and heightened colour, the solitary girl prepared
to defend her castle.  Presently she heard footsteps among the thick
bushes below, as if of some one running in hot haste.  Softswan laid her
finger on the trigger, but carefully, for the advancing runner might be
her husband.  Oh why did he not shout to warn her?  The poor girl
trembled a little, despite her self-restraint, as she thought of the
danger and the necessity for immediate action.

Suddenly the bushes on her left moved, and a man, pushing them aside,
peeped from among them.  He was a savage, in the war-paint and panoply
of a Blackfoot brave.  The spot to which he had crept was indeed the
nearest to the hut that could be reached in that direction, but Softswan
knew well that an impassable chasm separated her from the intruder, so
she kept well concealed behind the breastwork, and continued to watch
him through one of the peep-holes made in it for that purpose.  She
might have easily shot him, for he was within range, but her nature
revolted from doing so, for he seemed to think that the hut was
untenanted, and, instead of looking towards her place of concealment,
leaned over the cliff so as to get a good view of the lower end of the
zigzag track where it entered the woods.

Could he be a foe to the approaching Indians, or one of them? thought
the poor girl, rendered almost desperate by doubt and indecision.

Just then a man burst out of the woods below with a defiant shout, and
sprang up the narrow track.  It was Big Tim.  The savage on the cliff
pointed his rifle at him.  Indecision, doubt, mercy were instantly swept
away, and with the speed of the lightning flash the girl sent her charge
of slugs into the savage.  He collapsed, rolled over the cliff, and went
crashing into the bushes underneath, but instantly sprang up, as if
unhurt, and disappeared, just as a dozen of his comrades burst upon the
scene from the woods below.

The echoing report of the gun and the fall of their companion evidently
disconcerted the aim of the savages, for their scattering fire left the
bounding Tim untouched.  Before they could reload, Softswan sent them a
present of another charge of slugs, which, the distance being great, so
scattered itself as to embrace nearly the whole party, who thereupon
went wounded and howling back into the forest.

"Well done, my soft one!" exclaimed Big Tim, as he took a flying leap
over the low breastwork, and caught his bride in his arms, for even in
that moment of danger he could not help expressing his joy and
thankfulness at finding her safe and well, when he had half expected to
find her dead and scalped, if he found her at all.

Another moment, and he was kneeling at the breastwork, examining the
firearms and ready for action.

"Fetch the sabre, my soft one," said Big Tim, addressing his bride by
the title which he had bestowed on her on his wedding-day.

The tone in which he said this struck the girl as being unusually light
and joyous, not quite in keeping with the circumstance of being attacked
by overwhelming odds; but she was becoming accustomed to the
eccentricities of her bold and stalwart husband, and had perfect
confidence in him.  Without, therefore, expressing surprise by word or
look, she obeyed the order.

Unsheathing the weapon, the hunter felt its edge with his thumb, and a
slight smile played on his features as he said--

"I have good news for the soft one to-day."

The soft one looked, but did not say, "Indeed, what is it?"

"Yes," continued the youth, sheathing the sabre; "the man with the kind
heart and the snowy pinion has come back to the mountains.  He will be
here before the shadows of the trees grow much longer."

"Whitewing?" exclaimed Softswan, with a gleam of pleasure in her bright
black eyes.

"Just so.  The prairie chief has come back to us, and is now a
preacher."

"Has the pale-face preacher com' vis him?" asked the bride, with a
slightly troubled look, for she did not yet feel quite at home in her
broken English, and feared that her husband might laugh at her mistakes,
though nothing was further from the mind of the stout hunter than to
laugh at his pretty bride.  He did indeed sometimes indulge the
propensity in that strange conventional region "his sleeve," but no owl
of the desert was more solemn in countenance than Big Tim when Softswan
perpetrated her lingual blunders.

"I know not," he replied, as he renewed the priming of one of the guns.
"Hist! did you see something move under the willow bush yonder?"

The girl shook her head.

"A rabbit, no doubt," said the hunter, lowering the rifle which he had
raised, and resuming his easy unconcerned attitude, yet keeping his keen
eye on the spot with a steadiness that showed his indifference was
assumed.

"I know not whether the pale-face preacher is with him," he continued.
"Those who told me about him could only say that a white man dressed
like the crows was travelling a short distance in advance of Whitewing,
but whether he was one of his party or not, they could not tell.  Indeed
it is said that Whitewing has no party with him, that he travels alone.
If he does, he is more reckless than ever, seeing that his enemies the
Blackfeet are on the war-path just now; but you never know what a
half-mad redskin will do, and Whitewing is a queer customer."

Big Tim's style of speech was in accordance with his half-caste nature--
sometimes flowing in channels of slightly poetic imagery, like that of
his Indian mother; at other times dropping into the very matter-of-fact
style of his white sire.

"Leetil Tim vill be glad," said Softswan.

"Ay, daddy will be pleased.  By the way, I wonder what keeps him out so
long?  I half expected to find him here when I arrived.  Indeed, I made
sure it was him that tumbled yon Blackfoot off the cliff so smartly.
You see, I didn't know you were such a plucky little woman, my soft one,
though I might have guessed it, seeing that you possess all the good
qualities under the sun; but a man hardly expects his squaw to be great
on the war-path, d'ye see?"

Softswan neither smiled nor looked pleased at the compliment intended in
these words.

"Me loves not to draw bloods," she said gravely, with a pensive look on
the ground.

"Don't let that disturb you, soft one," said her husband, with a quiet
laugh.  "By the way he jumped after it I guess he has got no more harm
than if you'd gin him an overdose o' physic.  But them reptiles bein' in
these parts makes me raither anxious about daddy.  Did he say where he
meant to hunt when he went off this morning?"

"Yes; Leetil Tim says hims go for hunt near Lipstock Hill."

"Just so; Lopstick Hill," returned Tim, correcting her with offhand
gravity.

"But me hears a shote an' a cry," said the girl, with a suddenly anxious
look.

"That was from one o' the redskins, whose thigh I barked for sendin' an
arrow raither close to my head," said the young man.

"But," continued his bride, with increasing anxiety, "the shote an' the
cry was long before you comes home.  Pr'aps it bees Leetil Tim."

"Impossible," said Big Tim quickly; "father must have bin miles away at
that time, for Lopsuck Hill is good three hours' walk from here as the
crow flies, an' the Blackfeet came from the opposite airt o' the
compass."

The young hunter's prolonged silence after this, as well as the
expression of his face, showed that he was not quite as easy in his mind
as his words implied.

"Did the cry seem to be far off?" he asked at last quickly.

"Not far," returned his wife.

Without speaking, Big Tim began to buckle on the cavalry sabre, not in
the loosely-swinging cavalry fashion, but closely and firmly to his
side, with his broad waistbelt, so that it might not impede his
movements.  He then selected from the arms a short double-barrelled gun,
and, slinging a powder-horn and shot-pouch over his shoulders, prepared
to depart.

"Now listen, my soft one," he said, on completing his arrangements.  "I
feel a'most sartin sure that the cry ye heard was _not_ daddy's;
nevertheless, the bare possibility o' such a thing makes it my dooty to
go an' see if it was the old man.  I think the Blackfeet have drawed off
to have a palaver, an' won't be back for a bit, so I'll jist slip down
the precipice by our secret path; an' if they do come back when I'm
away, pepper them well wi' slugs.  I'll hear the shots, an' be back to
you afore they can git up the hill.  But if they should make a
determined rush, don't you make too bold a stand agin 'em.  Just let fly
with the big-bore when they're half-way up the track, an' then slip into
the cave.  I'll soon meet ye there, an we'll give the reptiles a
surprise.  Now, you'll be careful, soft one?"

Soft one promised to be careful, and Big Tim, entering the hut, passed
out at a back door, and descended the cliff to the torrent below by a
concealed path which even a climbing monkey might have shuddered to
attempt.

Meanwhile Softswan, re-arranging and re-examining her firearm, sat down
behind the breastwork to guard the fort.

The sun was still high in the heavens, illuming a magnificent prospect
of hill and dale and virgin forest, and glittering in the lakelets,
pools, and rivers, which brightened the scene as far as the distant
horizon, where the snow-clad peaks of the Rocky Mountains rose grandly
into the azure sky.

The girl sat there almost motionless for a long time, exhibiting in her
face and figure at once the keen watchfulness of the savage and the
endurance of the pale-face.

Unlike many girls of her class, she had at one period been brought for a
short time under the influence of men who loved the Lord Jesus Christ
and esteemed it equally a duty and a privilege to urge others to flee
from the wrath to come and accept the Gospel offer of salvation--men who
themselves had long before been influenced by the pale-face preacher to
whom Softswan had already referred.  The seed had, in her case, fallen
into good ground, and had brought forth the fruit of an earnest desire
to show good-will to all with whom she had to do.  It had also aroused
in her a hungering and thirsting for more knowledge of God and His ways.

It was natural, therefore, as she gazed on the splendid scene spread out
before her, that the thoughts of this child of the backwoods should rise
to contemplation of the Creator, and become less attentive to inferior
matters than circumstances required.

She was recalled suddenly to the danger of her position by the
appearance of a dark object, which seemed to crawl out of the bushes
below, just where the zigzag track entered them.  At the first glance it
seemed to resemble a bear; a second and more attentive look suggested
that it might be a man.  Whether bear or man, however, it was equally a
foe, at least so thought Softswan, and she raised one of the guns to her
shoulder with a promptitude that would have done credit to Big Tim
himself.

But she did not fire.  The natural disinclination to shed blood
restrained her--fortunately, as it turned out,--for the crawling object,
on reaching the open ground, rose with apparent difficulty and staggered
forward a few paces in what seemed to be the form of a drunken man.
After one or two ineffectual efforts to ascend the track, the
unfortunate being fell and remained a motionless heap upon the ground.



CHAPTER SIX.

A STRANGE VISITOR.

Curious mingling of eagerness, hope, and fear rendered Softswan for some
minutes undecided how to act as she gazed at the fallen man.  His garb
was of a dark uniform grey colour, which she had often heard described,
but had not seen until now.  That he was wounded she felt quite sure,
but she knew that there would be great danger in descending to aid him.
Besides, if he were helpless, as he seemed to be, she had not physical
strength to lift him, and would expose herself to easy capture if the
Blackfeet should be in ambush.

Still, the eager and indefinable hope that was in her heart induced the
girl to rise with the intention of descending the path, when she
observed that the fallen man again moved.  Rising on his hands and
knees, he crept forward a few paces, and then stopped.  Suddenly by a
great effort, he raised himself to a kneeling position, clasped his
hands, and looked up.

The act sufficed to decide the wavering girl.  Leaping lightly over the
breastwork, she ran swiftly down until she reached the man, who gazed at
her in open-mouthed astonishment.  He was a white man, and the ghastly
pallor of his face, with a few spots of blood on it and on his hands,
told that he had been severely wounded.

"Manitou seems to have sent an angel of light to me in my extremity," he
gasped in the Indian tongue.

"Come; me vill help you," answered Softswan, in her broken English, as
she stooped and assisted him to rise.

No other word was uttered, for even with the girl's assistance it was
with the utmost difficulty that the man reached the breastwork of the
hut, and when he had succeeded in clambering over it, he lay down and
fainted.

After Softswan had glanced anxiously in the direction of the forest, and
placed one of the guns in a handy position, she proceeded to examine the
wounded stranger.  Being expert in such matters, she opened his vest,
and quickly found a wound near the region of the heart.  It was bleeding
steadily though not profusely.  To stanch this and bind it up was the
work of a few minutes.  Then she reclosed the vest.  In doing so she
found something hard in a pocket near the wound.  It was a little book,
which she gently removed as it might interfere with the bandage.  In
doing so she observed that the book had been struck by the bullet which
it deflected, so as to cause a more deadly wound than might otherwise
have been inflicted.

She was thus engaged when the patient recovered consciousness, and,
seizing her wrist, exclaimed, "Take not the Word from me.  It has been
my joy and comfort in all my--"

He stopped on observing who it was that touched his treasure.

"Nay, then," he continued, with a faint smile, as he released his hold;
"it can come to no harm in thy keeping, child.  For an instant I thought
that rougher hands had seized it.  But why remove it?"

Softswan explained, but, seeing how eager the man was to keep it, she at
once returned the little Bible to the inner pocket in which it was
carried when not in use.  Then running into the hut she quickly returned
with a rib of venison and a tin mug of water.

The man declined the food, but drained the mug with an air of
satisfaction, which showed how much he stood in need of water.

Much refreshed, he pulled out the Bible again, and looked earnestly at
it.

"Strange," he said, in the Indian tongue, turning his eyes on his
surgeon-nurse; "often have I heard of men saved from death by bullets
being stopped by Bibles, but in my case it would seem as if God had made
it a key to unlock the gates of the better land."

"Does my white father think he is going to die?" asked the girl in her
own tongue, with a look of anxiety.

"It may be so," replied the man gently, "for I feel very, _very_ weak.
But feelings are deceptive; one cannot trust them.  It matters little,
however.  If I live, it is to work for Jesus.  If I die, it is to be
with Jesus.  But tell me, little one, who art thou whom the Lord has
sent to succour me?"

"Me is Softswan, daughter of the great chief Bounding Bull," replied the
girl, with a look of pride when she mentioned her father, which drew a
slight smile from the stranger.

"But Softswan has white blood in her veins," he said; "and why does she
sometimes speak in the language of the pale-face?"

"My mother," returned the girl in a low, sad tone, "was pale-face womans
from the Saskatchewan.  Me speaks English, for my husban' likes it."

"Your husband--what is his name!"

"Big Tim."

"What!" exclaimed the wounded man with sudden energy, as a flush
overspread his pale face; "is he the son of Little Tim, the
brother-in-law of Whitewing the prairie chief?"

"He is the son of Leetil Tim, an' this be hims house."

"Then," exclaimed the stranger, with a pleased look, "I have reached, if
not the end of my journey, at least a most important point in it, for I
had appointed to meet Whitewing at this very spot, and did not know,
when the Blackfoot Indian shot me, that I was so near the hut.  It
looked like a mere accident my finding the track which leads to it near
the spot where I fell, but it is the Lord's doing.  Tell me, Softswan,
have you never heard Whitewing and Little Tim speak of the pale-face
missionary--the Preacher, they used to call me?"

"Yes, yes, oftin," answered the girl eagerly.  "Me tinks it bees you.
Me _very_ glad, an' Leetil Tim he--"

Her speech was cut short at this point by a repetition of the appalling
war-whoop which had already disturbed the echoes of the gorge more than
once that day.

Naturally the attention of Softswan had been somewhat distracted by the
foregoing conversation, and she had allowed the Indians to burst from
the thicket and rush up the track a few paces before she was able to
bring the big-bore gun to bear on them.

"Slay them not, Softswan," cried the preacher anxiously, as he tried to
rise and prevent her firing.  "We cannot escape them."

He was too late.  She had already pressed the trigger, and the roar of
the huge gun was reverberating from cliff to cliff like miniature
thunder; but his cry had not been too late to produce wavering in the
girl's wind, inducing her to take bad aim, so that the handful of slugs
with which the piece had been charged went hissing over the assailants'
heads instead of killing them.  The stupendous hissing and noise,
however, had the effect of momentarily arresting the savages, and
inducing each man to seek the shelter of the nearest shrub.

"Com queek," cried Softswan, seizing the preacher's hand.  "You be
deaded soon if you not com queek."

Feeling the full force of this remark, the wounded man, exerting all his
strength, arose, and suffered himself to be led into the hut.  Passing
quickly out by a door at the back, the preacher and the bride found
themselves on a narrow ledge of rock, from one side of which was the
precipice down which Big Tim had made his perilous descent.  Close to
their feet lay a great flat rock or natural slab, two yards beyond which
the ledge terminated in a sheer precipice.

"No escape here," remarked the preacher sadly, as he looked round.  "In
my present state I could not venture down such a path even to save my
life.  But care not for me, Softswan.  If you think you can escape, go
and--"

He stopped, for to his amazement the girl stooped, and with apparent
ease raised the ponderous mass of rock above referred to as though it
had been a slight wooden trap-door, and disclosed a hole large enough
for a man to pass through.  The preacher observed that the stone was
hinged on a strong iron bar, which was fixed considerably nearer to one
side of it than the other.  Still, this hinge did not account for the
ease with which a mere girl lifted a ponderous mass which two or three
men could not have moved without the aid of levers.

But there was no time to investigate the mystery of the matter, for
another ringing war-whoop told that the Blackfeet, having recovered from
their consternation, had summoned courage to renew the assault.

"Down queek!" said the girl, looking earnestly into her companion's
face, and pointing to the dark hole, where the head of a rude ladder,
dimly visible, showed what had to be done.

"It does not require much faith to trust and obey such a leader,"
thought the preacher, as he got upon the ladder, and quickly disappeared
in the hole.  Softswan lightly followed.  As her head was about to
disappear, she raised her hand, seized hold of a rough projection on the
under surface of the mass of rock, and drew it gently down so as to
effectually close the hole, leaving no trace whatever of its existence.

While this was going on the Blackfeet were advancing up the narrow
pathway with superlative though needless caution, and no small amount of
timidity.  Each man took advantage of every scrap of cover he could find
on the way up, but as the owner of the hut had taken care to remove all
cover that was removable, they did not find much, and if the defenders
had been there, that little would have been found to be painfully
insufficient, for it consisted only of rugged masses and projections of
rock, none of which could altogether conceal the figure of a full-grown
man.  Indeed, it seemed inexplicable that these Indians should have made
this assault in broad day, considering that Indians in general are noted
for their care of "number one," are particularly unwilling to meet their
foes in fair open fight, and seldom if ever venture to storm a place of
strength except by surprise and under the cover of night.

The explanation lay partly in the fact that they were aware of the
advance of friends towards the place, but much more in this, that the
party was led by the great chief Rushing River, a man possessed of that
daring bulldog courage and reckless contempt of death which is usually
more characteristic of white than of red men.

When the band had by galvanic darts and rushes gained the last scrap of
cover that lay between them and the little fortress, Rushing River gave
vent to a whoop which was meant to thrill the defenders with
consternation to the very centre of their being, and made a gallant
rush, worthy of his name, for the breastwork.  Reaching it in gasping
haste, he and his braves crouched for one moment at the foot of it,
presumably to recover wind and allow the first fire of the defenders to
pass over their heads.

But no first fire came, and Rushing River rolled his great black eyes
upward in astonishment, perhaps thinking that his whoop had thrilled the
defenders off the face of the earth altogether!

Suspense, they say, is less endurable than actual collision with danger.
Probably Rushing River thought it so, for next moment he raised his
black head quickly.  Finding a hole in the defences, he applied one of
his black eyes to it and peeped through.  Seeing nothing, he uttered
another whoop, and vaulted over like a squirrel, tomahawk in hand, ready
to brain anybody or anything.  Seeing nobody and nothing in particular,
except an open door, he suspected an ambush in that quarter, darted
round the corner of the hut to get out of the doorway line of fire, and
peeped back.

Animated by a similar spirit, his men followed suit.  When it became
evident that no one meant to come out of the hut Rushing River resolved
to go in, and did so with another yell and a flourish of his deadly
weapon, but again was he doomed to expend his courage and violence on
air, for he possessed too much of natural dignity to expend his wrath on
inanimate furniture.

Of course one glance sufficed to show that the defenders had flown, and
it needed not the practised wit of a savage to perceive that they had
retreated through the back door.  In his eagerness to catch the foe, the
Indian chief sprang after them with such a rush that nothing but a stout
willow, which he grasped convulsively, prevented him from going over the
precipice headlong--changing, as it were, from a River into a Fall--and
ending his career appropriately in the torrent below.

When the chief had assembled his followers on the limited surface of the
ledge, they all gazed around them for a few seconds in silence.  On one
side was a sheer precipice.  On another side was, if we may so express
it, a sheerer precipice rising upward.  On the third side was the steep
and rugged path, which looked sufficiently dangerous to arrest all save
the mad or the desperate.  On the fourth side was the hut.

Seeing all this at a glance, Rushing River looked mysterious and said,
"Ho!"

To which his men returned, "How!"  "Hi!" and "Hee!" or some other
exclamation indicative of bafflement and surprise.

Standing on the trap-door rock as on a sort of pulpit, the chief pointed
with his finger to the precipitous path, and said solemnly--

"Big Tim has gone down _there_.  He has net the wings of the hawk, but
he has the spirit of the squirrel, or the legs of the goat."

"Or the brains of the fool," suggested a follower, with a few drops of
white blood in his veins, which made him what boys call "cheeky."

"Of course," continued Rushing River, still more solemnly, and scorning
to notice the remark, "of course Rushing River and his braves could
follow if they chose.  They could do anything.  But of what use would it
be?  As well might we follow the moose-deer when it has got a long
start."

"Big Tim has got the start, as Rushing River wisely says," remarked the
cheeky comrade, "but he is hampered with his squaw, and cannot go fast."

"Many pale-faces are hampered by their squaws, and cannot go fast,"
retorted the chief, by which reply he meant to insinuate that the few
drops of white blood in the veins of the cheeky one might yet come
through an experience to which a pure Indian would scorn to submit.
"But," continued the chief, after a pause to let the stab take full
effect, "but Softswan is well known.  She is strong as the mountain
sheep and fleet as the mustang.  She will not hamper Big Tim.  Enough!
We will let them go, and take possession of their goods."

Whatever the chief's followers might have thought about the first part
of his speech, there was evidently no difference of opinion as to the
latter part.  With a series of assenting "Ho's," "How's," "Hi's," and
"Hee's," they returned with him into the hut, and began to appropriate
the property, commencing with a cold haunch of venison which they
discovered in the larder, and to which they did ample justice, sitting
in a circle on the floor in the middle of the little room.

Leaving them there, we will return to Softswan and her new friend.

"The place is very dark," remarked the preacher, groping cautiously
about after the trap-door was closed as above described.

"Stan' still; I vill strik light," said Softswan.

In a few moments sparks were seen flying from flint and steel, and after
one or two unsuccessful efforts a piece of tinder was kindled.  Then the
girl's pretty little nose and lips were seen of a fiery red colour as
she blew some dry grass and chips into a flame, and kindled a torch
therewith.

The light revealed a small natural cavern of rock, not much more than
six feet high and ten or twelve wide, but of irregular shape, and
extending into obscurity in one direction.  The only objects in the cave
besides the ladder by which they entered it were a few barrels partially
covered with deerskin, an unusually small table, rudely but strongly
made, and an enormous mass of rock enclosed in a net of strong rope
which hung from an iron hook in the roof.

The last object at once revealed the mystery of the trap-door.  It
formed a ponderous counterpoise attached to the smaller section of the
stone slab, and so nearly equalised the weight on the hinge that, as we
have seen, Softswan's weak arm was sufficient to turn the scale.

The instant the torch flared up the girl stuck it into a crevice in the
wall, and quickly grasping the little table, pushed it under the pendent
rock.  It reached to within half an inch of the mass.  Picking up two
broad wooden wedges that lay on the floor, she thrust them between the
rock and the table, one on either side, so as to cause it to rest
entirely on the table, and thus by removing its weight from the iron
hook, the slab was rendered nearly immovable.  She was anxiously active
in these various operations, for already the Indians had entered the hut
and their voices could be distinctly heard overhead.

"Now," she whispered, with a sigh of relief, "six mans not abil to move
the stone, even if he knowed the hole is b'low it."

"It is an ingenious device," said the preacher, throwing his exhausted
form on a heap of pine branches which lay in a corner.  "Who invented
it--your husband?"

"No; it was Leetil Tim," returned the girl, with a low musical laugh.
"Big Tim says hims fadder be great at 'ventions.  He 'vent many t'ings.
Some's good, some's bad, an' some's funny."

The preacher could not forbear smiling at this account of his old
friend, in spite of his anxiety lest the Indians who were regaling
themselves overhead should discover their retreat.  He had begun to put
some questions to Softswan in a low voice when he was rendered dumb and
his blood seemed to curdle as he heard stumbling footsteps approaching
from the dark end of the cavern.  Then was heard the sound of some one
panting vehemently.  Next moment a man leaped into the circle of light,
and seized the Indian girl in his arms.

"Thank God!" he exclaimed fervently; "not too late!  I had thought the
reptiles had been too much for thee, soft one.  Ah me!  I fear that some
poor pale-face has--" He stopped abruptly, for at that moment Big Tim's
eye fell upon the wounded man.  "What!" he exclaimed, hastening to the
preacher's side; "you _have_ got here after all?"

"Ay, young man, through the goodness of God I have reached this haven of
rest.  Your words seem to imply that you had half expected to find me,
though how you came to know of my case at all is to me a mystery."

"My white father," returned Big Tim, referring as much to the preacher's
age and pure white hair as to his connection with the white men, "finds
mystery where the hunter and the red man see none.  I went out a-purpose
to see that it was not my daddy the Blackfoot reptiles had shot and soon
came across your tracks, which showed me as plain as a book that you was
badly wounded.  I followed the tracks for a bit, expectin' to find you
lyin' dead somewheres, when the whoops of the reptiles turned me back.
But tell me, white father, are you not the preacher that my daddy and
Whitewing used to know some twenty years agone?"

"I am, and fain would I meet with my former friends once more before I
die."

"You shall meet with them, I doubt not," replied the young hunter,
arranging the couch of the wounded man more comfortably.  "I see that my
soft one has bandaged you up, and she's better than the best o' sawbones
at such work.  I'll be able to make you more comfortable when we drive
the reptiles out o'--"

"Call them not reptiles," interrupted the preacher gently.  "They are
the creatures of God, like ourselves."

"It may be so, white father; nevertheless, they are uncommon low, mean,
sneakin', savage critters, an' that's all that I've got to do with."

"You say truth, Big Tim," returned the preacher, "and that is also all
that I have got to do with; but you and I take different methods of
correcting the evil."

"Every man must walk in the ways to which he was nat'rally born,"
rejoined the young hunter, with a dark frown, as the sound of revelry in
the hut overhead became at the moment much louder; "my way wi' them may
not be the best in the world, but you shall see in a few minutes that it
is a way which will cause the very marrow of the rep--of the _dear_
critters--to frizzle in their bones."



CHAPTER SEVEN.

BIG TIM'S METHOD WITH SAVAGES.

"I sincerely hope," said the wounded man, with a look of anxiety, "that
the plan you speak of does not involve the slaughter of these men."

"It does not" replied Big Tim, "though if it did, it would be serving
them right, for they would slaughter you and me--ay, and even Softswan
there--if they could lay hold of us."

"Is it too much to ask the son of my old friend to let me know what his
plans are?  A knowledge of them would perhaps remove my anxiety, which I
feel pressing heavily on me in my present weak condition.  Besides, I
may be able to counsel you.  Although a man of peace, my life has been
but too frequently mixed up with scenes of war and bloodshed.  In truth,
my mission on earth is to teach those principles which, if universally
acted on, would put an end to both;--perhaps I should have said, my
mission is to point men to that Saviour who is an embodiment of the
principles of Love and Peace and Goodwill."

For a few seconds the young hunter sat on the floor of the cave in
silence, with his hands clasped round his knees, and his eyes cast down
as if in meditation.  At last a smile played on his features, and he
looked at his questioner with a humorous twinkle in his eyes.

"Well, my white father," he said, "I see no reason why I should not
explain the matter to my daddy's old friend; but I'll have to say my say
smartly, for by the stamping and yells o' the rep--o' the Blackfeet
overhead, I perceive that they've got hold o' my case-bottle o' rum, an'
if I don't stop them they'll pull the old hut down about their ears.

"Well, you must know that my daddy left the settlements in his young
days," continued Big Tim, "an' took to a rovin' life on the prairies an'
mountains, but p'r'aps he told you that long ago.  No?  Well, he served
for some time at a queer sort o' trade--the makin' o' fireworks; them
rediklous things they call squibs, crackers, rockets, an' Roman candles,
with which the foolish folk o' the settlements blow their money into
smoke for the sake o' ticklin' their fancies for a few minutes.

"Well, when he came here, of course he had no use for sitch
tomfooleries, but once or twice, when he wanted to astonish the natives,
he got hold o' some 'pothicary's stuff an' wi' gunpowder an' charcoal
concocted some things that well-nigh drove the red men out o' their
senses, an' got daddy to be regarded as a great medicine-man.  Of course
he kep' it secret how he produced the surprisin' fires--an', to say
truth, I think from my own experience that if he had tried to explain it
to 'em they could have made neither head nor tail o't.  For a long time
arter that he did nothin' more in that way, till one time when the
Blackfeet came an' catched daddy an' me nappin' in this very hut and we
barely got off wi' the scalps on our heads by scrambling down the
precipice where the reptiles didn't like to follow.  When they left the
place they took all our odds an' ends wi' them, an' set fire to the hut.
Arter they was gone we set to work an' built a noo hut.  Then daddy--
who's got an amazin' turn for inventin' things--set to work to concoct
suthin' for the reptiles if they should pay us another visit.  It was at
that time he thought of turnin' this cave to account as a place o'
refuge when hard pressed, an' hit on the plan for liftin' the big stone
easy, which no doubt you've obsarved."

"Yes; Softswan has explained it to me.  But what about your plan with
the Indians?" said the preacher.

"I'm comin' to that," replied the hunter.  "Well, daddy set to work an'
made a lot o' fireworks--big squibs, an' them sort o' crackers, I forget
what you call 'em, that jumps about as if they was not only alive, but
possessed with evil spirits--"

"I know them--zigzag crackers," said the preacher, somewhat amused.

"That's them," cried Big Tim, with an eager look, as if the mere memory
of them were exciting.  "Well, daddy he fixed up a lot o' the big squibs
an' Roman candles round the walls o' the hut in such a way that they all
p'inted from ivery corner, above an' below, to the centre of the hut,
right in front o' the fireplace, so that their fire should all meet, so
to speak, in a focus.  Then he chiselled out a lot o' little holes in
the stone walls in such a way that they could not be seen, and in every
hole he put a zigzag cracker; an' he connected the whole affair--squibs,
candles, and crackers--with an instantaneous fuse, the end of which he
trained down, through a hole cut in the solid rock, into this here cave;
an' there's the end of it right opposite to yer nose."

He pointed as he spoke to a part of the wall of the cavern where a small
piece of what seemed like white tape projected about half an inch from
the stone.

"Has it ever been tried?" asked the preacher, who, despite his weak and
wounded condition, could hardly restrain a laugh as the young hunter
described his father's complicated arrangements.

"No, we han't tried it yet, 'cause the reptiles haven't bin here since,
but daddy, who's a very thoroughgoin' man, has given the things a
complete overhaul once a month ever since--'cept when he was away on
long expeditions--so as to make sure the stuff was dry an in workin'
order.  Now," added the young man, rising and lighting a piece of tinder
at the torch on the wall, "it's about time that we should putt it to the
test.  If things don't go wrong, you'll hear summat koorious overhead
before long."

He applied a light to the quick-match as he spoke, and awaited the
result.

In order that the reader may observe that result more clearly, we will
transport him to the scene of festivity in the little fortress above.

As Big Tim correctly surmised, the savages had discovered the hunter's
store of rum just after eating as much venison as they could comfortably
consume.  Fire-water, as is well known, tells with tremendous effect on
the excitable nerves and minds of Indians.  In a very few minutes it
produced, as in many white men, a tendency to become garrulous.  While
in this stage the savages began to boast, if possible, more than usual
of their prowess in chase and war, and as their potations continued,
they were guilty of that undignified act--so rare among red men and so
common among whites--of interrupting and contradicting each other.

This condition is the sure precursor of the quarrelsome and fighting
stage of drunkenness.  They had almost reached it, when Rushing River
rose to his feet for the purpose of making a speech.  Usually the form
of the chief was as firm as the rock on which he stood.  At this time,
however, it swayed very slightly to and fro, and in his eyes--which were
usually noted for the intensity of their eagle glance--there was just
then an owlish blink as they surveyed the circle of his braves.

Indeed Rushing River, as he stood there looking down into the upturned
faces, observed--with what feelings we know not--that these braves
sometimes exhibited a few of the same owlish blinks in their earnest
eyes.

"My b-braves," said the chief; and then, evidently forgetting what he
intended to say, he put on one of those looks of astonishing solemnity
which fire-water alone is capable of producing.

"My b-braves," he began again, looking sternly round the almost
breathless and expectant circle, "when we left our l-lodges in the
m-mountains this morning the sun was rising."

He paused, and this being an emphatic truism, was received with an
equally emphatic "Ho" of assent.

"N-now," continued the chief, with a gentle sway to the right, which he
corrected with an abrupt jerk to the left, "n-now, the sun is about to
descend, and w-we are _here_!"

Feeling that he had made a decided point, he drew himself up and
blinked, while his audience gave vent to another "Ho" in tones which
expressed the idea--"waiting for more."  The comrade, however, whose
veins were fired, or chilled, with the few drops of white blood,
ventured to assert his independence by ejaculating "Hum!"

"Bounding Bull," cried the chief, suddenly shifting ground and glaring,
while he breathed hard and showed his teeth, "is a coward.  His daughter
Softswan is a chicken-hearted squaw; and her husband Big Tim is a
skunk--so is Little Tim his father."

These remarks, being thoroughly in accord with the sentiments of the
braves, were received with a storm of "Ho's," "How's," "Hi's," and
"Hee's," which effectually drowned the cheeky one's "Hum's," and greatly
encouraged the chief, who thereafter broke forth in a flow of language
which was more in keeping with his name.  After a few boastful
references to the deeds of himself and his forefathers, he went into an
elaborate and exaggerated description of the valorous way in which they
had that day stormed the fort of their pale-face enemies and driven them
out; after which, losing somehow the thread of his discourse, he fell
back on an appallingly solemn look, blinked, and sat down.

This was the signal for the recurrence of the approving "Ho's" and
"Hi's," the gratifying effect of which, however, was slightly marred
when silence was restored by a subdued "Hum" from the cheeky comrade.

Directing a fierce glance at that presumptuous brave, Rushing River was
about to give vent to words which might have led on to the fighting
stage, when he was arrested, and, with his men, almost petrified, by a
strange fizzing noise which seemed to come from the earth directly below
them.

Incomprehensible sounds are at all times more calculated to alarm than
sounds which we recognise.  The report of a rifle, the yell of a foe,
could not have produced such an effect on the savages as did that
fizzing sound.  Each man grasped his tomahawk, but sat still, and turned
pale.  The fizzing sound was interspersed with one or two cracks, which
intensified the alarm, but did not clear up the mystery.  If they had
only known what to do they would have done it; what danger to face, they
would have faced it; but to sit there inactive, with the mysterious
sounds increasing, was almost intolerable.

Rushing River, of all the band, maintained his character for reckless
hardihood.  He sat there unblenched and apparently unmoved, though it
was plain that he was intensely watchful and ready.  But the foe
assailed him where least expected.  In a little hole right under the
very spot on which he sat lay one of the zigzag crackers.  Its first
crack caused the chief, despite his power of will and early training, to
bound up as if an electric battery had discharged him.  The second crack
sent the eccentric thing into his face.  Its third vagary brought it
down about his knees.  Its fourth sent it into the gaping mouth of the
cheeky one.  At the same instant the squibs and candles burst forth from
all points, pouring their fires on the naked shoulders of the red men
with a hiss that the whole serpent race of America might have failed to
equal, while the other zigzags went careering about as if the hut were
filled with evil spirits.

To say that the savages yelled and jumped, and stamped and roared, were
but a tame remark.  After a series of wild bursts, in sudden and violent
confusion which words cannot describe, they rushed in a compact body to
the door.  Of course they stuck fast.  Rushing River went at them like a
battering-ram, and tried to force them through, but failed.  The cheeky
comrade, with a better appreciation of the possibilities of the case,
took a short run and a header right over the struggling mass, _a la
harlequin_, and came down on his shoulders outside, without breaking his
neck.

Guessing the state of things by the nature of the sounds, Big Tim
removed the table from under the ponderous weight, lifted the
re-adjusted trap-door, and, springing up, darted into the hut just in
time to bestow a parting kick on the last man that struggled through.
Running to the breastwork, he beheld his foes tumbling, rushing,
crashing, bounding down the track like maniacs--which indeed they were
for the time being--and he succeeded in urging them to even greater
exertions by giving utterance to a grand resonant British cheer, which
had been taught him by his father, and had indeed been used by him more
than once, with signal success, against his Indian foes.

Returning to the cavern after the Indians had vanished into their native
woods, Big Tim assisted the preacher up the ladder, and, taking him into
the hut after the smoke of the fireworks had cleared away, placed him in
his own bed.

"You resemble your father in face, Big Tim, but not in figure," said the
missionary, when he had recovered from the exhaustion caused by his
recent efforts and excitement.

"My white father says truth," replied the hunter, with slightly humorous
glances at his huge limbs.  "Daddy is little, but he is strong--uncommon
strong."

"He used to be so when I knew him," returned the preacher, "and I dare
say the twenty years that have passed since then have not changed him
much, for he is a good deal younger than I am--about the same age, I
should suppose, as my old friend Whitewing."

"Yes, that's so," said the hunter; "they're both about five-an'-forty or
there-away, though I doubt if either o' them is quite sure about his
age.  An' they're both beginning to be grizzled about the scalp-locks."

"Your father, although somewhat reckless in his disposition," continued
the preacher, after a pause, "was a man of earnest mind."

"That's a fact, an' no mistake," returned Big Tim, examining a pot of
soup which his bride had put on the fire to warm up for their visitor.
"I doubt if ever I saw a more arnest-minded man than daddy, especially
when he tackles his victuals or gets on the track of a grizzly b'ar."

The missionary smiled, in spite of himself, as he explained that the
earnestness he referred to was connected rather with the soul and the
spiritual world than with this sublunary sphere.

"Well, he is arnest about that too," returned the hunter.  "He has often
told me that he didn't use to trouble his head about such matters long
ago, but after that time when he met you on the prairies he had been led
to think a deal more about 'em.  He's a queer man is daddy, an' putts
things to ye in a queer way sometimes.  `Timmy,' says he to me once--he
calls me Timmy out o' fondness, you know--`Timmy,' says he, `if you
comed up to a great thick glass wall, not very easy to see through, wi'
a door in it, an' you was told that some day that door would open, an'
you'd have to go through an' live on the other side o' that glass wall,
you'd be koorious to know the lie o' the land on the other side o' that
wall, wouldn't you, and what sort o' customers you'd have to consort wi'
there, eh?'

"`Yes, daddy,' says I, `you say right, an' I'd be a great fool if I
didn't take a good long squint now an' again.'

"`Well, Timmy,' says he, `this world is that glass wall, an' death is
the door through it, an' the Bible that the preacher gave me long ago is
the Book that helps to clear up the glass an' enable us to see through
it a little better; an' a Blackfoot bullet or arrow may open the door to
you an' me any day, so I'd advise you, lad, to take a good squint now
an' again.'  An' I've done it, too, Preacher, I've done it, but there's
a deal on it that I don't rightly understand."

"That I do not wonder at, my young friend; and I hope that if God spares
me I may be able to help you a little in this matter.  But what of
Whitewing?  Has he never tried to assist you?"

"Tried!  He just has; but the chief is too deep for me most times.  He
seems to have a wonderful grip o' these things himself, an' many a long
palaver he has wi' my daddy about 'em.  Whitewing does little else, in
fact but go about among his people far an' near tellin' them about their
lost condition and the Saviour of sinners.  He has even ventur'd to
visit a tribe o' the Blackfeet, but his great enemy Rushin' River has
sworn to scalp him if he gets hold of him, so we've done our best to
hold him back--daddy an' me--for it would be of no use preachin' to such
a double-dyed villain as Rushin' River."

"That is one of the things," returned the preacher, "that you do not
quite understand, Big Tim, for it was to such men as he that our Saviour
came.  Indeed, I have returned to this part of the country for the very
purpose of visiting the Blackfoot chief in company with Whitewing."

"Both you and Whitewing will be scalped if you do," said the young
hunter almost sternly.

"I trust not," returned the preacher; "and we hope to induce your father
to go with us."

"Then daddy will be scalped too," said Big Tim--"an' so will I, for I'm
bound to keep daddy company."

"It is to be hoped your gloomy expectations will not be realised,"
returned the preacher.  "But tell me, where is your father just now?"

"Out hunting, not far off," replied the youth, with an anxious look.
"To say truth, I don't feel quite easy about him, for he's bin away
longer than usual, or than there's any occasion for.  If he doesn't
return soon, I'll have to go an' sarch for him."

As the hunter spoke the hooting of an owl was distinctly heard outside.
The preacher looked up inquiringly, for he was too well acquainted with
the ways of Indians not to know that the cry was a signal from a biped
without wings.  He saw that Big Tim and his bride were both listening
intently, with expressions of joyful expectation on their faces.

Again the cry was heard, much nearer than before.

"Whitewing!" exclaimed the hunter, leaping up and hastening to the door.

Softswan did not move, but continued silently to stir the soup in the
pot on the fire.

Presently many footsteps were heard outside, and the sound of men
conversing in low tones.  Another moment, and a handsome middle-aged
Indian stood in the doorway.  With an expression of profound sorrow, he
gazed for one moment at the wounded man; then, striding forward, knelt
beside him and grasped his hand.

"My white father!" he said.

"Whitewing!" exclaimed the preacher; "I little expected that our meeting
should be like this!"

"Is the preacher badly hurt?" asked the Indian in a low voice.

"It may be so; I cannot tell.  My feelings lead me to--to doubt--I was
going to say fear, but I have nothing to fear.  `He doeth all things
well.'  If my work on earth is not done, I shall live; if it is
finished, I shall die."



CHAPTER EIGHT.

NETTING A GRIZZLY BEAR.

As it is at all times unwise as well as disagreeable to involve a reader
in needless mystery, we may as well explain here that there would have
been no mystery at all in Little Tim's prolonged absence from his
fortress, if it had not been that he was aware of the intended visit of
his chum and brother-in-law, Whitewing, and his old friend the
pale-faced missionary, and that he had promised to return on the evening
of the day on which he set off to hunt or on the following morning at
latest.

Moreover, Little Tim was a man of his word, having never within the
memory of his oldest friend been known to break it.  Thus it came to
pass that when three days had passed away, and the sturdy little hunter
failed to return, Big Tim and his bride first became surprised and then
anxious.  The attack on the hut, however, and the events which we have
just related, prevented the son from going out in search of the father;
but now that the Blackfeet had been effectually repulsed and the
fortress relieved by the arrival of Whitewing's party, it was resolved
that they should organise a search for the absentee without an hour's
delay.

"Leetil Tim," said Whitewing decisively, when he was told of his old
friend's unaccountable absence, "must be found."

"So say I," returned Big Tim.  "I hope the Blackfoot reptiles haven't
got him.  Mayhap he has cut himself with his hatchet.  Anyhow, we must
go at once.  You won't mind our leaving you for a bit?" he added,
turning to the missionary; "we will leave enough o' redskins to guard
you, and my soft one will see to it that you are comfortable."

"Think not of me," replied the preacher.  "All will go well, I feel
assured."

Still further to guard the reader from supposing that there is any
mystery connected with the missionary's name or Little Tim's surname, we
think it well to state at once that there is absolutely none.  In those
outlandish regions, and among that primitive people, the forming of
names by the mere combination of unmeaning syllables found small favour.
They named people according to some striking quality or characteristic.
Hence our missionary had been long known among the red men of the West
as the Preacher, and, being quite satisfied with that name, he accepted
it without making any attempt to bamboozle the children of the woods and
prairies with his real name, which was--and is--a matter of no
importance whatever.  Tim likewise, being short of stature, though very
much the reverse of weak or diminutive, had accepted the name of "Little
Tim" with a good grace, and made mention of no other; his son naturally
becoming "Big Tim" when he outgrew his father.

A search expedition having been quickly organised, it left the little
fortress at once, and defiled into the thick woods, led by Whitewing and
Big Tim.

In order that the reader may fully understand the cause of Little Tim's
absence, we will take the liberty of pushing on in advance of the search
party, and explain a few matters as we go.

It has already been shown that our little hunter possessed a natural
ingenuity of mind.  This quality had, indeed, been noticeable when he
was a boy, but it did not develop largely till he became a man.  As he
grew older his natural ingenuity seemed to become increasingly active,
until his thirst for improving on mechanical contrivances and devising
something new became almost a passion.  Hence he was perpetually
occupied in scheming to improve--as he was wont to say--the material
condition of the human race, as well as the mental.

Among other things, he improved the traps of his Indian friends, and
also their dwellings.  He invented new traps, and, as we have seen, new
methods of defending dwellings, as well as of escaping when defence
failed.  His name, of course, became well known in the Indian country,
and as some of his contrivances proved to be eminently useful, he was
regarded far and near as a great medicine-man, who could do whatever he
set his mind to.  Without laying claim to such unlimited powers, Little
Tim was quite content to leave the question of his capacity to scheme
and invent as much a matter of uncertainty in the minds of his red
friends as it was in his own mind.

One day there came to the Indian village, in which he dwelt at the time
with his still pretty though matronly wife Brighteyes, one of the agents
of a man whose business it was to collect wild animals for the
menageries of the United States and elsewhere.  Probably this man was an
ancestor of Barnum, for he possessed a mind which seemed to be capable
of conceiving anything and sticking at nothing.  He found a man quite
after his own heart when he discovered Little Tim.

"I want a grizzly b'ar," he said, on being introduced to the hunter.

"There's plenty of 'em in these parts," said Tim, who was whittling a
piece of wood at the time.

"But I want a full-grown old 'un," said the agent.

"Well," remarked Tim, looking up with an inquiring glance for a moment,
"I should say there's some thousands, more or less, roamin' about the
Rockies, in all stages of oldness--from experienced mammas to
great-grandmothers, to say nothin' o' the old gentlemen; but you'll find
most of 'em powerful sly an' uncommon hard to kill."

"But I don't want to kill 'em; I want one of 'em alive," said the agent.

At this Little Tim stopped whittling the bit of stick, and looked hard
at the man.

"You wants to catch one alive?" he repeated.

"_Yes_, that's what's the matter with me exactly.  I want it for a show,
an' I'm prepared to give a good price for a big one."

"How much?" asked the hunter.

The stranger bent down and whispered in his ear.  Little Tim raised his
eyebrows a little, and resumed whittling.

"But," said he, after a few moments' vigorous knife-work, "what if I
should try, an' fail?"

"Then you get nothing."

"Won't do," returned the little hunter, with a slow shake of the head.
"I'm game to tackle difficulties for love _or_ money, but not for
nothin'.  You'll have to go to another shop, stranger."

"Well, what will you _try_ it for?" asked the agent, who was unwilling
to lose his man.

"For quarter o' the sum down, to be kep' whether I succeed or fail, the
balance to be paid when I hand over the goods."

"Well, stranger," returned the agent, with a grim smile, "I don't mind
if I agree to that.  You seem an honest man."

"Sorry I can't return the compliment," said Little Tim, holding out his
hand.  "So cash down, if you please."

The agent laughed, but pulled out a huge leathern bag, and paid the
stipulated sum in good undeniable silver dollars.

The hunter at once made preparation for his enterprise.  Meanwhile the
agent took up his abode in the Indian village to await the result.

After a night of profound meditation in the solitude of his wigwam,
Little Tim set to work and cut up several fresh buffalo hides into long
and strong lines with which he made a net of enormous mesh and strength.
He arranged it in such a way, with a line run round the circumference,
that he could draw it together like a purse.  With this gigantic affair
on his shoulder, he set off one morning at daybreak into the mountains.
He met the agent, who was an early riser, on the threshold of the
village.

"What! goin' out alone, Little Tim?" he said.

"Yes; b'ars don't like company, as a rule."

"Don't you think I might help you a bit?"

"No, I don't.  If you stop where you are, I'll very likely bring the
b'ar home to 'ee.  If you go with me, it's more than likely the b'ar
will take you home to her small family!"

"Well, well, have it your own way," returned the agent, laughing.

"I always do," replied the hunter, with a grin.

Proceeding a day's journey into the mountains, our adventurous hunter
discovered the track of a bear, which must, he thought be an uncommonly
large one.  Selecting a convenient tree, he stuck four slender poles
into the ground, under one of its largest branches.  Over these he
spread his net, arranging the closing rope--or what we may term the
purse-string--in such a way that he could pass it over the branch of the
tree referred to.  This done, he placed a large junk of buffalo-meat
directly under the net, and pegged it to the ground.

Thereafter Little Tim ascended the tree, crept out on the large limb
until he reached the spot where the line had been thrown over it,
directly above his net.  There, seating himself comfortably among the
branches, he proceeded to sup and enjoy himself, despite the unsavoury
smell that arose from the half-decayed buffalo-meat below.

The limb of the tree was so large and suitable that while a fork of it
was wide enough to serve for a table, a branch which grew upwards formed
a lean to the hunter's back, and another branch, doubling round most
conveniently, formed a rest for his right elbow.  At the same time an
abrupt curl in the same branch constituted a rest for his gun.  Thus he
reclined in a natural one-armed rustic chair, with his weapons handy,
and a good supper before him.

"What could a man wish more?" he muttered to himself, with a contented
expression of face, as he fixed a square piece of birch-bark in the fork
of the branch, and on this platter arranged his food, commenting thereon
as he proceeded: "Roast prairie hen.  Capital grub, with a bit o' salt
pork, though rather dry an' woodeny-like by itself.  Buffalo rib.
Nothin' better, hot or cold, except marrow-bones; but then, you see,
marrow-bones ain't just parfection unless hot, an' this is bound to be a
cold supper.  Hunk o' pemmican.  A safe stand-by at all times.  Don't
need no cookin', an' a just proportion o' fat to lean, but doesn't do
without appetite to make it go down.  Let me be thankful I've got that,
anyhow."

At this point Little Tim thought it expedient to make the line of his
net fast to this limb of the tree.  After doing so, he examined the
priming of his gun, made a few other needful arrangements, and then gave
himself up to the enjoyment of the hour, smiling benignly to the moon,
which happened to creep out from behind a mountain peak at the time, as
if on purpose to irradiate the scene.

"It has always seemed to me," muttered the hunter, as well as a large
mouthful of the prairie hen would permit--for he was fond of muttering
his thoughts when alone; it felt more sociable, you see, than merely
thinking them--"It has always seemed to me that contentment is a grand
thing for the human race.  Pity we hasn't all got it!"

Inserting at this point a mass of the hunk, which proved a little too
large for muttering purposes, he paused until the road was partially
cleared, and then went on--"Of course I don't mean that lazy sort o'
contentment that makes a man feel easy an' comfortable, an' quite
indifferent to the woes an' worries of other men so long as his own
bread-basket is stuffed full.  No, no.  I means that sort o' contentment
that makes a man feel happy though he hasn't got champagne an' taters,
pigeon-pie, lobscouse, plum-duff, mustard an' jam at every blow-out;
that sort o' contentment that takes things as they come, an' enjoys 'em
without grumpin' an' growlin' 'cause he hasn't got somethin' else."

Another hunk here stopping the way, a somewhat longer silence ensued,
which would probably have been broken as before by the outpouring of
some sage reflections, but for a slight sound which caused the hunter to
become what we may style a human petrifaction, with a half-chewed morsel
in its open jaws, and its eyes glaring.

A few seconds more, and the sound of breaking twigs gave evidence that a
visitor drew near.  Little Tim bolted the unchewed morsel, hastily
sheathed his hunting-knife, laid one hand on the end of his line, and
waited.

He had not to wait long, for out of the woods there sauntered a grizzly
bear of such proportions that the hunter at first thought the moonlight
must have deceived him.

"Sartinly it's the biggest that I've ever clapped eyes on," he thought
but he did not speak or move.  So anxious was he not to scare the
animal, that he hardly breathed.

Bruin seemed to entertain suspicions of some sort, for he sniffed the
tainted air once or twice, and looked inquiringly round.  Coming to the
conclusion, apparently, that his suspicions were groundless, he walked
straight up to the lump of buffalo-meat and sniffed it.  Not being
particular, he tried it with his tongue.

"Good!" said the bear--at least if he did not say so, he must have
thought so, for next moment he grasped it with his teeth.  Finding it
tethered hard and fast, he gathered himself together for the purpose of
exercising main force.

Now was Little Tim's opportunity.  Slipping a cord by which the net was
suspended to the four stakes, he caused it to descend like a curtain
over the bear.  It acted most successfully, insomuch that the animal was
completely enveloped.

Surprised, but obviously not alarmed, Bruin shook his head, sniffed a
little, and pawed the part of the net in front of him.  The hunter
wasted no time.  Seeing that the net was all right, he pulled with all
his might on the main rope, which partly drew the circumference of the
net together.  Finding his feet slightly trammelled, the grizzly tried
to move off, but of course trod on the net, tripped, and rolled over.
In so doing he caught sight of the hunter, who was now enabled to close
the mouth of the net-purse completely.

Being by that time convinced, apparently, that he was the victim of foul
play, the bear lost his temper, and tried to rise.  He tripped as
before, came down heavily on his side, and hit the back of his head
against a stone.  This threw him into a violent rage, and he began to
bounce.

At all times bouncing is ineffectual and silly, even in a grizzly bear.
The only result was that he bruised his head and nose, tumbled among
stones and stumps, and strained the rope so powerfully that the limb of
the tree to which it was attached was violently shaken, and Little Tim
was obliged to hold on to avoid being shaken off.

Experience teaches bears as well as fools.  On discovering that it was
useless to bounce, he sat down in a disconsolate manner, poked as much
as he could of his nose through one of the meshes, and sniggered at
Little Tim, who during these outbursts was naturally in a state of great
excitement.  Then the bear went to work leisurely to gnaw the mesh close
to his mouth.

The hunter was not prepared for this.  He had counted on the creature
struggling with its net till it was in a state of complete exhaustion,
when, by means of additional ropes, it could be so wound round and
entangled in every limb as to be quite incapable of motion.  In this
condition it might be slung to a long pole and carried by a sufficient
number of men to the small, but immensely strong, cage on wheels which
the agent had brought with him.

Not only was there the danger of the bear breaking loose and escaping,
or rendering it necessary that he should be shot, but there was another
risk which Little Tim had failed at first to note.  The scene on which
he had decided to play out his little game was on the gentle slope of a
hill, which terminated in a precipice of considerable height, and each
time the bear struggled and rolled over in his network purse, he
naturally gravitated towards the precipice, over which he was certain to
go if the rope which held him to the tree should snap.

The hunter had just become thoroughly alive to this danger when, with a
tremendous struggle, the bear burst two of the meshes in rear, and his
hind-quarters were free.

Little Tim seized his gun, feeling that the crisis had come.  He was
loath to destroy the creature, and hesitated.  Instead of backing out of
his prison, as he might easily have done, the bear made use of his free
hind legs to make a magnificent bound forward.  He was checked, of
course, by the rope, but Tim had miscalculated the strength of his
materials.  A much stronger rope would have broken under the tremendous
strain.  The line parted like a piece of twine, and the bear, rolling
head over heels down the slope, bounded over the precipice, and went
hurling out into space like a mighty football!

There was silence for a few seconds, then a simultaneous thud and
bursting cry that was eminently suggestive.

"H'm!  It's all over," sighed Little Tim, as he slid down the branch to
the ground.

And so it was.  The bear was effectually killed, and the poor hunter had
to return to the Indian village crestfallen.

"But hold on, stranger," he said, on meeting the agent; "don't you give
way to despair.  I said there was lots of 'em in these parts.  You come
with me up to a hut my son's got in the mountains, an' I'll circumvent a
b'ar for you yet.  You can't take the cart quite up to the hut but you
can git near enough, at a place where there's a Injin' friend o' mine
as'll take care of ye."

The agent agreed, and thus it came to pass that at the time of which we
now write, Little Tim was doing his best to catch a live bear, but, not
liking to be laughed at even by his son in the event of failure, he had
led him and his bride to suppose that he had merely gone out hunting in
the usual way.

It was on this expedition that Little Tim had set forth when Whitewing
was expected to arrive at Tim's Folly--as the little hut or fortress had
come to be named--and it was the anxiety of his friends and kindred at
his prolonged absence which resulted, as we have seen, in the formation
and departure of a search expedition.



CHAPTER NINE.

A DARING EXPLOIT.

To practised woodsmen like Whitewing and Big Tim it was as easy to
follow the track of Little Tim as if his steps had been taken through
newly-fallen snow, although very few and slight were the marks left on
the green moss and rugged ground over which the hunter had passed.

Six picked Indians accompanied the prairie chief, and these marched in
single file, each treading in the footsteps of the man in front with the
utmost care.

At first the party maintained absolute silence.  Their way lay for some
distance along the margin of the brawling stream which drained the gorge
at the entrance of which Tim's Folly stood.  The scenery around them was
wild and savage in the extreme, for the higher they ascended, the
narrower became the gorge, and the masses of rock which had fallen from
the frowning cliffs on either side had strewn the lower ground with
shapeless blocks, and so impeded the natural flow of the little stream
that it became, as it were, a tormented and foaming cataract.

At the head of the gorge the party came to a pass or height of land,
through which they went with caution, for, although no footsteps of man
had thus far been detected by their keen eyes save those of Little Tim,
it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that foes might be lurking
on the other side of the pass.  No one, however, was discovered, and
when they emerged at the other end of the pass it was plain that, as Big
Tim remarked, the coast was clear, for from their commanding position
they could see an immeasurable distance in front of them, over an
unencumbered stretch of land.

The view from this point was indeed stupendous.  The vision seemed to
range not only over an almost limitless world of forests, lakes, and
rivers--away to where the haze of the horizon seemed to melt with them
into space--but beyond that to where the great backbone of the New World
rose sharp, clear, and gigantic above the mists of earth, until they
reached and mingled with the fleecy clouds of heaven.  To judge from
their glittering eyes, even the souls of the not very demonstrative
Indians were touched by the scene.  As for the prairie chief, who had
risen to the perceptions of the new life in Christ he halted and stood
for some moments as if lost in contemplation.  Then, turning to the
young hunter at his side, he said softly--

"The works of the Lord are great."

"Strange," returned Big Tim, "that you should use the very same words
that I've heard my daddy use sometimes when we've come upon a grand view
like that."

"Not so strange when I tell you," replied Whitewing, "that these are
words from the Book of Manitou, and that your father and I learned them
together long ago from the preacher who now lies wounded in your hut."

"Ay, ay!  Daddy didn't tell me that.  He's not half so given to serious
talk as you are, Whitewing, though I'm free to admit that he does take a
fit o' that sort now an' again, and seems raither fond of it.  The fact
is, I don't quite understand daddy.  He puzzles me."

"Perhaps Leetil Tim is too much given to fun when he talks with Big
Tim," suggested the red chief gravely, but with a slight twinkle in his
eyes, which told that he was not quite destitute of Little Tim's
weakness--or strength, as the reader chooses.

After a brief halt the party descended the slope which led to the
elevated valley they had now reached, and, having proceeded a few miles,
again came to a halt because the ground had become so rocky that the
trail of the hunter was lost.

Ordering the young men to spread themselves over the ground, Whitewing
went with Big Tim to search over the ridge of a neighbouring eminence.

"It is as I expected," he said, coming to a sudden stand, and pointing
to a faint mark on the turf.  "Leetil Tim has taken the short cut to the
Lopstick Hill, but I cannot guess the reason why."

Big Tim was down on his knees examining the footprints attentively.

"Daddy's futt, an' no mistake," he said, rising slowly.  "I'd know the
print of his heel among a thousand.  He's got a sort o' swagger of his
own, an' puts it down with a crash, as if he wanted to leave his mark
wherever he goes.  I've often tried to cure him o' that, but he's
incurable."

"I have observed," returned the chief, with, if possible, increased
gravity, "that many sons are fond of trying to cure their fathers; also,
that they never succeed."

Big Tim looked quickly at his companion, and laughed.

"Well, well," he said, "the daddies have a good go at us in youth.  It's
but fair that we should have a turn at _them_ afterwards."

A sharp signal from one of the young Indians in the distance interrupted
further converse, and drew them away to see what he had discovered.  It
was obvious enough--the trail of the Blackfoot Indians retiring into the
mountains.

At first Big Tim's heart sank, for this discovery, coupled with the
prolonged absence of his father, suggested the fear that he had been
waylaid and murdered.  But a further examination led them to think--at
least to hope--that the savages had not observed the hunter's trail,
owing to his having diverged at a point of the track further down, where
the stony nature of the ground rendered trail-finding, as we have seen,
rather difficult.  Still, there was enough to fill the breasts of both
son and friend with anxiety, and to induce them to push on thereafter
swiftly and in silence.

Let us once again take flight ahead of them, and see what the object of
their anxiety is doing.

True to his promise to try his best, the dauntless little hunter had
proceeded alone, as before, to a part of the mountain region where he
knew from past experience that grizzlies were to be easily found.  There
he made his preparations for a new effort on a different plan.

The spot he selected for his enterprise was an open space on a bleak
hillside, where the trees were scattered and comparatively small.  This
latter peculiarity--the smallness of the trees--was, indeed, the only
drawback to the place, for few of them were large enough to bear his
weight, and afford him a secure protection from his formidable game.  At
last however, he found one,--not, indeed, quite to his mind, but
sufficiently large to enable him to get well out of a bear's reach, for
it must be remembered that although some bears climb trees easily, the
grizzly bear cannot climb at all.  There was a branch on the lower part
of the tree which seemed quite beyond the reach of the tallest bear even
on tiptoe.

Having made his disposition very much as on the former occasion, Little
Tim settled himself on this branch, and awaited the result.

He did not, however, sit as comfortably as on the previous occasion, for
the branch was small and had no fork.  Neither did he proceed to sup as
formerly, for it was yet too early in the day to indulge in that meal.

His plan this time was, not to net, but to lasso the bear; and for that
purpose he had provided four powerful ropes made of strips of raw,
undressed buffalo hide, plaited, with a running noose on each.

"Now," said Little Tim, with a self-satisfied smirk, as he seated
himself on the branch and surveyed the four ropes complacently, "it'll
puzzle the biggest b'ar in all the Rocky Mountains to break them ropes."

Any one acquainted with the strength of the material which Tim began to
uncoil would have at once perceived that the lines in question might
have held an elephant or a small steamer.

"I hope," murmured Tim, struggling with a knot in one of the cords that
bound the coils, "I hope I'll be in luck to-day, an' won't have to wait
long."

Little Tim's hope reached fruition sooner than he had expected--sooner
even than he desired--for as he spoke he heard a rustle in the bushes
behind him.  Looking round quickly, he beheld "the biggest b'ar, out o'
sight, that he had iver seen in all his life."  So great was his
surprise--we would not for a moment call it alarm--that he let slip the
four coils of rope, which fell to the ground.

Grizzly bears, it must be known, are gifted with insatiable curiosity,
and they are not troubled much with the fear of man, or, indeed, of
anything else.  Hearing the thud of the coils on the ground, this
monster grizzly walked up to and smelt them.  He was proceeding to taste
them, when, happening to cast his little eyes upwards, he beheld Little
Tim sitting within a few feet of his head.  To rise on his hind legs,
and solicit a nearer interview, was the work of a moment.  To the poor
hunter's alarm, when he stretched his tremendous paws and claws to their
utmost he reached to within a foot of the branch.  Of course Little Tim
knew that he was safe, but he was obliged to draw up his legs and lay
out on the branch, which brought his head and eyes horribly near to the
nose and projecting tongue of the monster.

To make matters worse, Tim had left his gun leaning against the stem of
the tree.  He had his knife and hatchet in his belt, but these he knew
too well were but feeble weapons against such a foe.  Besides, his
object was not to slay, but to secure.

Seeing that there was no possibility of reaching the hunter by means of
mere length of limb, and not at that time having acquired the art of
building a stone pedestal for elevating purposes, the bear dropped on
its four legs and looked round.  Perceiving the gun, it went leisurely
up and examined it.  The examination was brief but effective.  It gave
the gun only one touch with its paw, but that touch broke the lock and
stock and bent the barrel so as to render the weapon useless.

Then it returned to the coil of ropes, and, sitting down, began to chew
one of them, keeping a serious eye, however, on the branch above.

It was a perplexing situation even for a backwoodsman.  The branch on
which Tim lay was comfortable enough, having many smaller branches and
twigs extending from it on either side, so that he did not require to
hold on very tightly to maintain his position.  But he was fully aware
of the endurance and patience of grizzly bears, and knew that, having
nothing else to do, this particular Bruin could afford to bide his time.

And now the ruling characteristic of Little Tim beset him severely.  His
head felt like a bombshell of fermenting ingenuity.  Every device,
mechanical and otherwise, that had ever passed through his brain since
childhood, seemed to rush back upon him with irresistible violence in
his hopeless effort to conceive some plan by which to escape from his
present and pressing difficulty--he would not, even to himself, admit
that there was danger.  The more hopeless the case appeared to him, the
less did reason and common-sense preside over the fermentation.  When he
saw his gun broken, his first anxiety began.  When he reflected on the
persistency of grizzlies in watching their foes, his naturally buoyant
spirits began to sink and his native recklessness to abate.  When he saw
the bear begin steadily to devour one of the lines by which he had hoped
to capture it, his hopes declined still more; and when he considered the
distance he was from his hut, the fact that his provision wallet had
been left on the ground along with the gun, and that the branch on which
he rested was singularly unfit for a resting-place on which to pass many
hours, he became wildly ingenious, and planned to escape, not only by
pitching his cap to some distance off so as to distract the bear's
attention, and enable him to slip down and run away, but by devising
methods of effecting his object by clockwork, fireworks, wings,
balloons--in short, by everything that ever has, in the history of
design, enabled men to achieve their ends.

His first and simplest method, to fling his cap away, was indeed so far
successful that it did distract the bear's attention for a moment, but
it did not disturb his huge body, for he sat still, chewing his buffalo
quid leisurely, and, after a few seconds, looked up at his victim as
though to ask, "What d'you mean by that?"

When, after several hours, all his attempts had failed, poor Little Tim
groaned in spirit, and began to regret his having undertaken the job;
but a sense of the humorous, even in that extremity, caused him to give
vent to a short laugh as he observed that Bruin had managed to get
several feet of the indigestible rope down his throat, and fancied what
a surprise it would give him if he were to get hold of the other end of
the rope and pull it all out again.

At last night descended on the scene, making the situation much more
unpleasant, for the darkness tended to deceive the man as to the motions
of the brute, and once or twice he almost leaped off the branch under
the impression that his foe had somehow grown tall enough to reach him,
and was on the point of seizing him with his formidable claws.  To add
to his troubles, hunger came upon Tim about his usual supper-time, and
what was far worse, because much less endurable, sleep put in a powerful
claim to attention.  Indeed this latter difficulty became so great that
hunger, after a time, ceased to trouble him, and all his faculties--even
the inventive--were engaged in a tremendous battle with this good old
friend, who had so suddenly been converted into an implacable foe.  More
than once that night did Little Tim, despite his utmost efforts, fall
into a momentary sleep, from which each time he awoke with a convulsive
start and sharp cry, to the obvious surprise of Bruin, who, being
awakened out of a comfortable nap, looked up with a growl inquiringly,
and then relapsed.

When morning broke, it found the wretched man still clutching his uneasy
couch, and blinking like an owl at the bear, which still lay comfortably
on the ground below him.  Unable to stand it any longer, Tim resolved to
have a short nap, even if it should cost him his life.  With this end in
view, he twined his arms and legs tightly round his branch.  The very
act reminded him that his worsted waistbelt might be twined round both
body and branch, for it was full two yards long.  Wondering that it had
not occurred to him before, he hastily undid it, lashed himself to the
branch as well as he could, and in a moment was sound asleep.  This
device would have succeeded admirably had not one of his legs slowly
dropped so low down as to attract the notice of the bear when it awoke.
Rising to its full height on its hind legs, and protruding its tongue to
the utmost, it just managed to touch Tim's toe.  The touch acted liked
an electric spark, awoke him at once, and the leg was drawn promptly up.

But Tim had had a nap, and it is wonderful how brief a slumber will
suffice to restore the energies of a man in robust health.  He unlashed
himself.

"Good mornin' to 'ee," he said, looking down.  "You're there yet, I
see."

He finished the salutation with a loud yawn, and stretched himself so
recklessly that he almost fell off the branch into the embrace of his
expectant foe.  Then he looked round, and, reason having been restored,
hit upon a plan of escape which seemed to him hopeful.

We have said that the space he had selected was rather open, but there
were scattered over it several large masses of rock, about the size of
an ordinary cart, which had fallen from the neighbouring cliffs.  Four
of these stood in a group at about fifty yards' distance from his tree.

"Now, old Caleb," he said, "I'll go in for it, neck or nothin'.  You
tasted my toes this mornin'.  Would you like to try 'em again?"

He lowered his foot as he spoke, as far down as he could reach.  The
bear accepted the invitation at once, rose up, protruded his tongue as
before, and just managed to touch the toe.  Now it is scarcely needful
to say that a strong man leading the life of a hunter in the Rocky
Mountains is an athlete.  Tim thought no more of swinging himself up
into a tree by the muscular power of his arms than you would think of
stepping over a narrow ditch.  When the bear was standing in its most
upright attitude, he suddenly swung down, held on to the branch with his
hands, and drove both his feet with such force against the bear's chin
that it lost its balance and fell over backwards with an angry growl.
At the same moment Tim dropped to the ground, and made for the fallen
rocks at a quicker rate than he had ever run before.  Bruin scrambled to
his feet with amazing agility, looked round, saw the fugitive, and gave
chase.  Darting past the first rock, it turned, but Little Tim, of
course, was not there.  He had doubled round the second, and taken
refuge behind the third mass of rock.

Waiting a moment till the baffled bear went to look behind another rock,
he ran straight back again to his tree, hastily gathered up his ropes,
and reascended to his branch, where the bear found him again not many
minutes later.

"Ha!  HA! you old rascal!" he shouted, as he fastened the end of a rope
firmly to the branch, and gathered in the slack so as to have the
running noose handy.  "I've got you now.  Come, come along; have another
taste of my toe!"

This invitation was given when the bear stood in his former position
under the tree and looked up.  Once again it accepted the invitation,
and rose to the hunter's toe as a salmon rises to an irresistible fly.

"That's it!  Now, hold on--just one moment.  _There_!"

As Tim finished the sentence, he dropped the noose so deftly over the
bear's head and paws that it went right down to his waist.  This was an
unlooked-for piece of good fortune.  The utmost the hunter had hoped for
was to noose the creature round the neck.  Moreover, it was done so
quickly that the monster did not seem to fully appreciate what had
occurred, but continued to strain and reach up at the toe in an imbecile
sort of way.  Instead, therefore, of drawing the noose tight, Little Tim
dropped a second noose round the monster's neck, and drew that tight.
Becoming suddenly alive to its condition, the grizzly made a backward
plunge, which drew both ropes tight and nearly strangled it, while the
branch on which Tim was perched shook so violently that it was all he
could do to hold on.

For full half an hour that bear struggled fiercely to free itself, and
often did the shaken hunter fear that he had miscalculated the strength
of his ropes, but they stood the test well, and, being elastic, acted in
some degree like lines of indiarubber.  At the end of that time the bear
fell prone from exhaustion, which, to do him justice, was more the
result of semi-strangulation than exertion.

This was what Little Tim had been waiting for and expecting.  Quietly
but quickly he descended to the ground, but the bear saw him, partially
recovered, no doubt under an impulse of rage, and began to rear and
plunge again, compelling his foe to run to the fallen rocks for shelter.
When Bruin had exhausted himself a second time, Tim ran forward and
seized the old net with which he had failed to catch the previous bear,
and threw it over his captive.  The act of course revived the lively
monster, but his struggles now wound him up into such a ravel with the
two lines and the net that he was soon unable to get up or jump about,
though still able to make the very earth around him tremble with his
convulsive heaves.  It was at once a fine as well as an awful display of
the power of brute force and the strength of raw material!

Little Tim would have admired it with philosophic interest if he had not
been too busy dancing around the writhing creature in a vain effort to
fix his third rope on a hind leg.  At last an opportunity offered.  A
leg burst one of the meshes of the net.  Tim deftly slipped the noose
over it, and made the line fast to the tree.  "Now," said he, wiping the
perspiration from his brow, "you're safe, so I'll have a meal."

And Little Tim, sitting down on a stone at a respectful distance,
applied himself with zest to the cold breakfast of which he stood so
very much in need.

He was thus occupied when his son with the prairie chief and his party
found him.

It would take at least another chapter to describe adequately the joy,
surprise, laughter, gratulation, and comment which burst from the rescue
party on discovering the hunter.  We therefore leave it to the reader's
imagination.  One of the young braves was at once sent off to find the
agent and fetch him to the spot with his cage on wheels.  The feat, with
much difficulty, was accomplished.  Bruin was forcibly and very
unwillingly thrust into the prison.  The balance of the stipulated sum
was honourably paid on the spot, and now that bear is--or, if it is not,
ought to be--in the Zoological Gardens of New York, London, or Paris,
with a printed account of his catching, and a portrait of Little Tim
attached to the front of his cage!



CHAPTER TEN.

SNAKES IN THE GRASS.

It was a sad but interesting council that was held in the little
fortress of "Tim's Folly" the day following that on which the grizzly
bear was captured.

The wounded missionary, lying in Big Tim's bed, presided.  Beside him,
with an expression of profound sorrow on his fine face, sat Whitewing,
the prairie chief.  Little Tim and his big son sat at his feet.  The
other Indians were ranged in a semicircle before him.

In one sense it was a red man's council, but there were none of the
Indian formalities connected with it, for the prairie chief and his
followers had long ago renounced the superstitions and some of the
practices of their kindred.

Softswan was not banished from the council chamber, as if unworthy even
to listen to the discussions of the "lords of creation," and no pipe of
peace was smoked as a preliminary, but a brief, earnest prayer for
guidance was put up by the missionary to the Lord of hosts, and subjects
more weighty than are usually broached in the councils of savages were
discussed.

The preacher's voice was weak, and his countenance pale, but the wonted
look of calm confidence was still there.

"Whitewing," he said, raising himself on one elbow, "I will speak as God
gives me power, but I am very feeble, and feel that the discussion of
our plans must be conducted chiefly by yourself and your friends."

He paused, and the chief, with the usual dignity of the red man,
remained silent, waiting for more.  Not so Little Tim.  That worthy,
although gifted with all the powers of courage and endurance which mark
the best of the American savages, was also endowed with the white man's
tendency to assert his right to wag his tongue.

"Cheer up, sir," he said, in a tone of encouragement, "you mustn't let
your spirits go down.  A good rest here, an' good grub, wi' Softswan's
cookin'--to say nothin' o' her nursin'--will put ye all right before
long."

"Thanks, Little Tim," returned the missionary, with a smile; "I do cheer
up, or rather, God cheers me.  Whether I recover or am called home is in
His hands; therefore all shall be well.  But," he added, turning to the
chief, "God has given us brains, hands, materials, and opportunities to
work with, therefore must we labour while we can, as if all depended on
ourselves.  The plans which I had laid out for myself He has seen fit to
change, and it now remains for me to point out what I aimed at, so that
we may accommodate ourselves to His will.  Sure am I that with or
without my aid, His work shall be done, and, for the rest--'though He
slay me, yet will I trust in Him."

Again he paused, and the Indians uttered that soft "Ho!" of assent with
which they were wont to express approval of what was said.

"When I left the settlements of the white men," continued the preacher,
"my object was twofold: I wished to see Whitewing, and Little Tim, and
Brighteyes, and all the other dear friends whom I had known long ago,
before the snows of life's winter had settled on my head, but my main
object was to visit Rushing River, the Blackfoot chief, and carry the
blessed Gospel to his people, and thus, while seeking the salvation of
their souls, also bring about a reconciliation between them and their
hereditary foe, Bounding Bull."

"It's Rushin' River as is the enemy," cried Little Tim, interrupting,
for when his feelings were excited he was apt to become regardless of
time, place, and persons, and the allusion to his son's wife's father--
of whom he was very fond--had roused him.  "Boundin' Bull would have bin
reconciled long ago if Rushin' River would have listened to reason, for
he is a Christian, though I'm bound to say he's somethin' of a queer
one, havin' notions of his own which it's not easy for other folk to
understand."

"In which respect, daddy," remarked Big Tim, using the English tongue
for the moment, and allowing the smallest possible smile to play on his
lips, "Bounding Bull is not unlike yourself."

"Hold yer tongue, boy, else I'll give you a woppin'," said the father
sternly.

"Dumb, daddy, dumb," replied the son meekly.

It was one of the peculiarities of this father and son that they were
fond of expressing their regard for each other by indulging now and then
in a little very mild "chaff," and the playful threat to give his son a
"woppin'"--which in earlier years he had sometimes done with much
effect--was an invariable proof that Little Tim's spirit had been
calmed, and his amiability restored.

"My white father's intentions are good," said Whitewing, after another
pause, "and his faith is strong.  It needs strong faith to believe that
the man who has shot the preacher shall ever smoke the pipe of peace
with Whitewing."

"With God all things are possible," returned the missionary.  "And you
must not allow enmity to rankle in your own breast, Whitewing, because
of me.  Besides, it was probably one of Rushing River's braves, and not
himself, who shot me.  In any case they could not have known who I was."

"I'm not so sure o' that," said Big Tim.  "The Blackfoot reptile has a
sharp eye, an' father has told me that you knew him once when you was in
these parts twenty years ago."

"Yes, I knew him well," returned the preacher, in a low, meditative
voice.  "He was quite a little boy at the time--not more than ten years
of age, I should think, but unusually strong and brave.  I met him when
travelling alone in the woods, and it so happened that I had the good
fortune to save his life by shooting a brown bear which he had wounded,
and which was on the point of killing him.  I dwelt with him and his
people for a time, and pressed him to accept salvation through Jesus,
but he refused.  The Holy Spirit had not opened his eyes, yet I felt and
still feel assured that that time will come.  But it has not come yet,
if all that I have heard of him be true.  You may depend upon it,
however, that he did not shoot me knowingly."

Both Little and Big Tim by their looks showed that their belief in
Rushing River's future reformation was very weak, though they said
nothing, and the Indians maintained such imperturbable gravity that
their looks gave no indication as to the state of their minds.

"My white father's hopes and desires are good," said Whitewing, after
another long pause, during which the missionary closed his eyes, and
appeared to be resting, and Tim and his son looked gravely at each
other, for that rest seemed to them strongly to resemble death.  "And
now what does my father propose to do?"

"My course is clear," answered the wounded man, opening his eyes with a
bright, cheerful look.  "I cannot move.  Here God has placed me, and
here I must remain till--till I get well.  All the action must be on
your part, Whitewing, and that of your friends.  But I shall not be idle
or useless as long as life and breath are left to enable me to pray."

There was another decided note of approval from the Indians, for they
had already learned the value of prayer.

"The first step I would wish you to take, however," continued the
missionary, "is to go and bring to this hut my sweet friend Brighteyes
and your own mother, Whitewing, who, you tell me, is still alive."

"The loved old one still lives," returned the Indian.

"Lives!" interposed Little Tim, with emphasis, "I should think she does,
an' flourishes too, though she _has_ shrivelled up a bit since you saw
her last.  Why, she's so old now that we've changed her name to
Live-for-ever.  She sleeps like a top, an' feeds like a grampus, an'
does little else but laugh at what's goin' on around her.  I never did
see such a jolly old girl in all my life.  Twenty years ago--that time,
you remember, when Whitewing carried her off on horseback, when the
village was attacked--we all thought she was on her last legs, but,
bless you sir, she can still stump about the camp in a tremblin' sort o'
way, an' her peepers are every bit as black as those of my own
Brighteyes, an' they twinkle a deal more."

"Your account of her," returned the preacher, with a little smile,
"makes me long to see her again.  Indeed, the sight of these two would
comfort me greatly whether I live or die.  They are not far distant from
here, you say?"

"Not far.  My father's wish shall be gratified," said Whitewing.  "After
they come we will consult again, and my father will be able to decide
what course to pursue in winning over the Blackfeet."

Of course the two Tims and all the others were quite willing to follow
the lead of the prairie chief, so it was finally arranged that a party
should be sent to the camp of the Indians, with whom Brighteyes and
Live-for-ever were sojourning at the time--about a long day's march from
the little fortress--and bring those women to the hut, that they might
once again see and gladden the heart of the man whom they had formerly
known as the Preacher.

Now, it is a well-ascertained and undoubtable fact that the passion of
love animates the bosoms of red men as well as white.  It is also a
curious coincidence that this passion frequently leads to modifications
of action and unexpected, sometimes complicated, results and situations
among the red as well as among the white men.

Bearing this in mind, the reader will be better able to understand why
Rushing River, in making a raid upon his enemies, and while creeping
serpent-like through the grass in order to reconnoitre previous to a
night attack, came to a sudden stop on beholding a young girl playing
with a much younger girl--indeed, a little child--on the outskirts of
the camp.

It was the old story over again.  Love at first sight!  And no wonder,
for the young girl, though only an Indian, was unusually graceful and
pretty, being a daughter of Little Tim and Brighteyes.  From the former,
Moonlight (as she was named) inherited the free-and-easy yet modest
carriage of the pale-face, from the latter a pretty little straight nose
and a pair of gorgeous black eyes that seemed to sparkle with a private
sunshine of their own.

Rushing River, although a good-looking, stalwart man in the prime of
life, had never been smitten in this way before.  He therefore resolved
at once to make the girl his wife.  Red men have a peculiar way of
settling such matters sometimes, without much regard to the wishes of
the lady--especially if she be, as in this case, the daughter of a foe.
In pursuance of his purpose, he planned, while lying there like a snake
in the grass, to seize and carry off the fair Moonlight by force,
instead of killing and scalping the whole of the Indians in Bounding
Bull's camp with whom she sojourned.

It was not any tender consideration for his foes, we are sorry to say,
that induced this change of purpose, but the knowledge that in a night
attack bullets and arrows are apt to fly indiscriminately on men, women,
and children.  He would have carried poor Moonlight off then and there
if she had not been too near the camp to permit of his doing so without
great risk of discovery.  The presence of the little child also
increased the risk.  He might, indeed, have easily "got rid" of her, but
there was a soft spot in that red man's heart which forbade the savage
deed--a spot which had been created at that time, long, long ago, when
the white preacher had discoursed to him of "righteousness and
temperance and judgment to come."

Little Skipping Rabbit, as she was called, was the youngest child of
Bounding Bull.  If Rushing River had known this, he would probably have
hardened his heart, and struck at his enemy through the child, but
fortunately he did not know it.

Retiring cautiously from the scene, the Blackfoot chief determined to
bide his time until he should find a good opportunity to pounce upon
Moonlight and carry her off quietly.  The opportunity came even sooner
than he had anticipated.

That night, while he was still prowling round the camp, Whitewing
accompanied by Little Tim and a band of Indians arrived.

Bounding Bull received them with an air of dignified satisfaction.  He
was a grave, tall Indian, whose manner was not at all suggestive of his
name, but warriors in times of peace do not resemble the same men in
times of war.  Whitewing had been the means of inducing him to accept
Christianity, and although he was by no means as "queer" a Christian as
Little Tim had described him, he was, at all events, queer enough in the
eyes of his enemies and his unbelieving friends to prefer peace or
arbitration to war, on the ground that it is written, "If possible, as
much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men."

Of course he saw that the "if possible" justified self-defence, and
might in some circumstances even warrant aggressive action.  Such, at
all events, was the opinion he expressed at the solemn palaver which was
held after the arrival of his friends.

"Whitewing," said he, drawing himself up with flashing eyes and extended
hand in the course of the debate, "surely you do not tell me that the
Book teaches us to allow our enemies to raid in our lands, to carry off
our women and little ones, and to burn our wigwams, while we sit still
and wait till they are pleased to take our scalps?"

Having put this rather startling question, he subsided as promptly as he
had burst forth.

"That's a poser!" thought the irreverent Little Tim, who sympathised
with Bounding Bull, but he said nothing.

"My brother has been well named," replied the uncompromising Whitewing;
"he not only bounds upon his foes, but lets his mind bound to foolish
conclusions.  The Book teaches peace--if possible.  If it be not
possible, then we cannot avoid war.  But how can we know what is
possible unless we try?  My brother advises that we should go on the
war-path at once, and drive the Blackfeet away.  Has Bounding Bull tried
his best to bring them to reason? has he failed?  Does he know that
peace is _impossible_?"

"Now look here, Whitewing," broke in Little Tim at this point.  "It's
all very well for you to talk about peace an' what's possible.  I'm a
Christian man myself, an' there's nobody as would be better pleased than
me to see all the redskins in the mountains an' on the prairies at peace
wi' one another.  But you won't get me to believe that a few soft words
are goin' to make Rushin' River all straight.  He's the sworn enemy o'
Boundin' Bull.  Hates him like pison.  He hates me like brimstone, an'
it's my opinion that if we don't make away wi' him he'll make away wi'
us."

Whitewing--who was fond of silencing his opponents by quoting Scripture,
many passages of which he had learned by heart long ago from his friend
the preacher--did not reply for a few seconds.  Then, looking earnestly
at his brother chief, he said--

"With Manitou all things are possible.  A soft answer turns away wrath."

Bounding Bull pondered the words.  Little Tim gave vent to a doubtful
"humph"--not that he doubted the truth of the Word, but that he doubted
its applicability on the present occasion.

It was finally agreed that the question should not be decided until the
whole council had returned to Tim's Folly, and laid the matter before
the wounded missionary.

Then Little Tim, being freed from the cares of state, went to solace
himself with domesticity.

Moonlight was Indian enough to know that females might not dare to
interrupt the solemn council.  She was also white woman enough to scorn
the humble gait and ways of her red kindred, and to run eagerly to meet
her sire as if she had been an out-and-out white girl.  The hunter, as
we have said, rather prided himself in keeping up some of the ways of
his own race.  Among other things, he treated his wife and daughter
after the manner of white men--that is, well-behaved white men.  When
Moonlight saw him coming towards his wigwam, she bounded towards him.
Little Tim extended his arms, caught her round the slender waist with
his big strong hands, and lifted her as if she had been a child until
her face was opposite his own.

"Hallo, little beam of light!" he exclaimed, kissing her on each cheek,
and then on the point of her tiny nose.

  "Eyes of mother--heart of sire,
  Fit to set the world on fire."

Tim had become poetical as he grew older, and sometimes tried to throw
his flashing thoughts into couplets.  He spoke to his daughter in
English, and, like Big Tim with his wife, required her to converse with
him in that language.

"Is mother at home?"

"Yes, dear fasser, mosser's at home."

"An' how's your little doll Skippin' Rabbit?"

"Oh! she well as could be, an' a'most as wild too as rabbits.  Runs away
from me, so I kin hardly kitch her sometime."

Moonlight accompanied this remark with a merry laugh, as she thought of
some of the eccentricities of her little companion.

Entering the wigwam, Little Tim found Brighteyes engaged with an iron
pot, from which arose savoury odours.  She had been as lithe and active
as Moonlight once, and was still handsome and matronly.  The eyes,
however, from which she derived her name, still shone with undiminished
lustre and benignity.

"Bless you, old woman," said the hunter, giving his wife a hearty kiss,
"you're as fond o' victuals as ever, I see."

"At least my husband is, so I keep the pot boiling," retorted
Brighteyes, with a smile, that proved her teeth to be as white as in
days of yore.

"Right, old girl, right.  Your husband is about as good at emptying the
pot as he is at filling it.  Come, let's have some, while I tell you of
a journey that's in store for you."

"A long one?" asked the wife.

"No, only a day's journey on horseback.  You're goin' to meet an old
friend."

From this point her husband went on to tell about the arrival and
wounding of the preacher, and how he had expressed an earnest desire to
see her.

While they were thus engaged, the prairie chief was similarly employed
enlightening his own mother.

That kind-hearted bundle of shrivelled-up antiquity was seated on the
floor on the one side of a small fire.  Her son sat on the opposite
side, gazing at her through the smoke, with, for an Indian, an unwonted
look of deep affection.

"The snows of too many winters are on my head to go on journeys now,"
she said, in a feeble, quavering voice.  "Is it far that my son wants me
to go?"

"Only one day's ride towards the setting sun, thou dear old one."

Thus tenderly had Christianity, coupled with a naturally affectionate
disposition, taught the prairie chief to address his mother.

"Well, my son, I will go.  Wherever Whitewing leads I will follow, for
he is led by Manitou.  I would go a long way to meet that good man the
pale-face preacher."

"Then to-morrow at sunrise the old one will be ready, and her son will
come for her."

So saying, the chief rose, and stalked solemnly out of the wigwam.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE SNAKES MAKE A DART AND SECURE THEIR VICTIMS.

While the things described in the last chapter were going on in the
Indian camp, Rushing River was prowling around it, alternately engaged
in observation and meditation, for he was involved in complicated
difficulties.

He had come to that region with a large band of followers for the
express purpose of scalping his great enemy Bounding Bull and all his
kindred, including any visitors who might chance to be with him at the
time.  After attacking Tim's Folly, and being driven therefrom by its
owner's ingenious fireworks, as already related, the chief had sent away
his followers to a distance to hunt, having run short of fresh meat.  He
retained with himself a dozen of his best warriors, men who could glide
with noiseless facility like snakes, or fight with the noisy ferocity of
fiends.  With these he meant to reconnoitre his enemy's camp, and make
arrangements for the final assault when his braves should return with
meat--for savages, not less than other men, are dependent very much on
full stomachs for fighting capacity.

But now a change had come over the spirit of his dream.  He had suddenly
fallen in love, and that, too, with one of his enemy's women.  His love
did not, however, extend to the rest of her kindred.  Firm as was his
resolve to carry off the girl, not less firm was his determination to
scalp her family root and branch.

As we have said, he hesitated to attack the camp for fear that mischief
might befall the girl on whom he had set his heart.  Besides, he would
require all his men to enable him to make the attack successfully, and
these would not, he knew, return to him until the following day.  The
arrival of Whitewing and Little Tim with their party still further
perplexed him.

He knew by the council that was immediately called, and the preparations
that followed, that news of some importance had been brought by the
prairie chief, and that action of some sort was immediately to follow;
but of course what it all portended he could not divine, and in his
uncertainty he feared that Moonlight--whose name of course he did not at
that time know--might be spirited away, and he should never see her
again.  Really, for a Red Indian, he became quite sentimental on the
point and half resolved to collect his dozen warriors, make a
neck-or-nothing rush at Bounding Bull, and carry off his scalp and the
girl at the same fell swoop.

Cooler reflection, however, told him that the feat was beyond even _his_
powers, for he knew well the courage and strength of his foe, and was
besides well acquainted with the person and reputation of the prairie
chief and Little Tim, both of whom had foiled his plans on former
occasions.

Greatly perplexed, therefore, and undetermined as to his course of
procedure, Rushing River bade his followers remain in their retreat in a
dark part of a tangled thicket, while he should advance with one man
still further in the direction of the camp to reconnoitre.

Having reached an elevated spot as near to the enemy as he dared venture
without running the risk of being seen by the sentinels, he flung
himself down, and crawled towards a tree, whence he could partially
observe what went on below.  His companion, a youth named Eaglenose,
silently followed his example.  This youth was a fine-looking young
savage, out on his first war-path, and burning to distinguish himself.
Active as a kitten and modest as a girl, he was also quick-witted, and
knew when to follow the example of his chief and when to remain
inactive--the latter piece of knowledge a comparatively rare gift to the
ambitious!

After a prolonged gaze, with the result of nothing gained, Rushing River
was about to retire from the spot as wise as he went, when his companion
uttered the slightest possible hiss.  He had heard a sound.  Next
instant the chief heard it, and smiled grimly.  We may remark here in
passing that the Blackfoot chief was eccentric in many ways.  He prided
himself on his contempt for the red man's love for paint and feathers,
and invariably went on the war-path unpainted and unadorned.  In
civilised life he would certainly have been a Radical.  How far his
objection to paint was influenced by the possession of a manly, handsome
countenance, of course we cannot tell.

To clear up the mystery of the sound which had thrilled on the sharp ear
of Eaglenose, we will return to the Indian camp, where, after the
council, a sumptuous feast of venison steaks and marrow-bones was spread
in Bounding Bull's wigwam.

Moonlight not being one of the party, and having already supped, said to
her mother that she was going to find Skipping Rabbit and have a run
with her.  You see, Moonlight, although full seventeen years of age, was
still so much of a child as to delight in a scamper with her little
friend, the youngest child of Bounding Bull.

"Be careful, my child," said Brighteyes.  "Keep within the sentinels;
you know that the great Blackfoot is on the war-path."

"Mother," said Moonlight, with the spirit of her little father stirring
in her breast, "I don't fear Rushing River more than I do the sighing of
the wind among the pine-tops.  Is not my father here, and Whitewing?
And does not Bounding Bull guard our wigwams?"

Brighteyes said no more.  She was pleased with the thorough confidence
her daughter had in her natural protectors, and quietly went on with the
moccasin which she was embroidering with the dyed quills of the
porcupine for Little Tim.

We have said that Moonlight was rather self-willed.  She would not
indeed absolutely disobey the express commands of her father or mother,
but when she had made no promise, she was apt to take her own way, not
perceiving that to neglect or to run counter to a parent's known wishes
is disobedience.

As the night was fine and the moon bright, our self-willed heroine, with
her skipping playmate, rambled about the camp until they got so far in
the outskirts as to come upon one of the sentinels.  The dark-skinned
warrior gravely told her to go back.  Had she been any other Indian
girl, she would have meekly obeyed at once; but being Little Tim's
daughter, she was prone to assert the independence of her white blood,
and, to say truth, the young braves stood somewhat in awe of her.

"The Blackfoot does not make war against women," said Moonlight, with a
touch of lofty scorn in her tone.  "Is the young warrior afraid that
Rushing River will kill and eat us?"

"The young warrior fears nothing," answered the sentinel, with a dark
frown; "but his chief's orders are that no one is to leave or enter the
camp, so Moonlight must go home."

"Moonlight will do as she pleases," returned the girl loftily.  At the
same time, knowing that the man would certainly do his duty, and prevent
her from passing the lines, she turned sharply round, and walked away as
if about to return to the camp.  On getting out of the sentinel's sight,
however, she stopped.

"Now, Skipping Rabbit," she said, "you and I will teach that fellow
something of the art of war.  Will you follow me?"

"Will the little buffalo follow its mother?" returned the child.

"Come, then," said Moonlight, with a slight laugh; "we will go beyond
the lines.  Do as I do.  You are well able to copy the snake."

The girl spoke truly.  Both she and Skipping Rabbit had amused
themselves so often in imitating the actions of the Indian braves that
they could equal if not beat them, at least in those accomplishments
which required activity and litheness of motion.  Throwing herself on
her hands and knees, Moonlight crept forward until she came again in
sight of the sentinel.  Skipping Rabbit followed her trail like a little
shadow.  Keeping as far from the man as possible without coming under
the observation of the next sentinel, they sank into the long grass, and
slowly wormed their way forward so noiselessly that they were soon past
the lines, and able to rise and look about with caution.

The girl had no thought of doing more than getting well out of the camp,
and then turning about and walking boldly past the young sentinel, just
to show that she had defeated him, but at Skipping Rabbit's suggestion
she led the way to a neighbouring knoll just to have one look round
before going home.

It was on this very knoll that Rushing River and Eaglenose lay, like
snakes in the grass.

As the girls drew near, chatting in low, soft, musical tones, the two
men lay as motionless as fallen trees.  When they were within several
yards of them the young Indian glanced at his chief, and pointed with
his conveniently prominent feature to Skipping Rabbit.  A slight nod was
the reply.

On came the unconscious pair, until they almost trod on the prostrate
men.  Then, before they could imagine what had occurred, each found
herself on the ground with a strong hand over her mouth.

It was done so suddenly and effectually that there was no time to utter
even the shortest cry.

Without removing their hands for an instant from their mouths, the
Indians gathered the girls in their left arms as if they had been a
couple of sacks or bundles, and carried them swiftly into the forest,
the chief leading, and Eaglenose stepping carefully in his footsteps.
It was not a romantic or lover-like way of carrying off a bride, but Red
Indian notions of chivalry may be supposed to differ from those of the
pale-faces.

After traversing the woods for several miles they came to the spot where
Rushing River had left his men.  They were unusually excited by the
unexpected capture, and, from their animated gestures and glances during
the council of war which was immediately held, it was evident to poor
Moonlight that her fate would soon be decided.

She and Skipping Rabbit sat cowering together at the foot of the tree
where they had been set down.  For one moment Moonlight thought of her
own lithe and active frame, her powers of running and endurance, and
meditated a sudden dash into the woods, but one glance at the agile
young brave who had been set to watch her would have induced her to
abandon the idea even if the thought of leaving Skipping Rabbit behind
had not weighed with her.

In a few minutes Rushing River left his men and approached the tree at
the foot of which the captives were seated.

The moon shone full upon his tall figure, and revealed distinctly every
feature of his grave, handsome countenance as he approached.

The white spirit of her father stirred within the maiden.  Discarding
her fears, she rose to meet him with a proud glance, such as was not
often seen among Indian girls.  Instead of being addressed, however, in
the stern voice of command with which a red warrior is apt to speak to
an obstreperous squaw, he spoke in a low, soft respectful tone, which
seemed to harmonise well with the gravity of his countenance, and
thrilled to the heart of Moonlight.  She was what is familiarly
expressed in the words "done for."  Once more we have to record a case
of love at first sight.

True, the inexperienced girl was not aware of her condition.  Indeed, if
taxed with it, she would probably have scorned to admit the possibility
of her entertaining even mild affection--much less love--for any man of
the Blackfoot race.  Still, she had an uneasy suspicion that something
was wrong, and allowed an undercurrent of feeling to run within her,
which, if reduced to language, would have perhaps assumed the form,
"Well, but he _is_ so gentle, so respectful, so very unlike all the
braves I have ever seen; but I hate him, for all that!  Is he not the
enemy of my tribe?"

Moonlight would not have been a daughter of Little Tim had she given in
at once.  Indeed, if she had known that the man who spoke to her so
pleasantly was the renowned Rushing River--the bitter foe of her father
and of Bounding Bull--it is almost certain that the indignant tone and
manner which she now assumed would have become genuine.  But she did not
know this; she only knew from his dress and appearance that the man
before her was a Blackfoot, and the knowledge raised the whole Blackfoot
race very much in her estimation.

"Is the fair-faced maiden," said Rushing River, referring to the girl's
comparatively light complexion, "willing to share the wigwam of a
Blackfoot chief?"

Moonlight received this very decided and unusually civil proposal of
marriage with becoming hauteur, for she was still ruffled by the
undignified manner in which she had been carried off.

"Does the fawn mate with the wolf?" she demanded.  "Does the chief
suppose that the daughter of Little Tim can willingly enter the lodge of
a Blackfoot?"

A gleam of surprise and satisfaction for a moment lighted up the grave
countenance of the chief.

"I knew not," he replied, "that the maiden who has fallen into my hands
is a child of the brave little pale-face whose deeds of courage are
known all over the mountains and prairies."

This complimentary reference to her father went far to soften the
maiden's heart, but her sense of outraged dignity required that she
should be loyal to herself as well as to her tribe, therefore she
sniffed haughtily, but did not reply.

"Who is the little one?" asked the chief, pointing to Skipping Rabbit,
who, in a state of considerable alarm, had taken refuge behind her
friend, and only peeped at her captor.

Moonlight paused for a few seconds before answering, uncertain whether
it would be wiser to say who she was, or merely to describe her as a
child of the tribe.  Deciding on the former course, in the hope of
impressing the Blackfoot with a sense of his danger, she said--

"Skipping Rabbit is the daughter of Bounding Bull."  Then, observing
another gleam of surprise and triumph on the chief's face, she added
quickly, "and the Blackfoot knows that Bounding Bull and his tribe are
very strong, very courageous, and very revengeful.  If Moonlight and
Skipping Rabbit are not sent home at once, there will be war on the
mountains and the plains, for Whitewing, the great chief of the
prairies, is just now in the camp of Bounding Bull with his men.  Little
Tim, as you know, is terrible when his wrath is roused.  If war is
carried into the hunting-grounds of the Blackfeet, many scalps will be
drying in our lodges before the snows of winter begin to descend.  If
evil befalls Skipping Rabbit or Moonlight, before another moon is passed
Rushing River himself, the chicken-hearted chief of the Blackfeet, will
be in the dust with his fathers, and his scalp will fringe the leggings
of Little Tim."

We have given but a feeble translation of this speech, which in the
Indian tongue was much more powerful; but we cannot give an adequate
idea of the tone and graceful gesticulation of the girl as, with
flashing orbs and heightened colour, she delivered it.  Yet it seemed to
have no effect whatever on the man to whom it was spoken.  Without
replying to it, he gently, almost courteously, took the maiden's hand,
and led her to a spot where his men were stationed.

They were all on horseback, ready for an immediate start.  Two horses
without riders stood in the midst of the group.  Leading Moonlight to
one of these, Rushing River lifted her by the waist as if she had been a
feather, and placed her thereon.  Skipping Rabbit he placed in front of
Eaglenose.  Then, vaulting on to his own steed, he galloped away through
the forest, followed closely by the whole band.

Now it so happened that about the same hour another band of horsemen
started from the camp of Bounding Bull.

Under the persuasive eloquence of Little Tim, the chief had made up his
mind to set out for the fortress without waiting for daylight.

"You see," Tim had said, "we can't tell whether the preacher is goin' to
live or die, an' it would be a pity to risk lettin' him miss seein' the
old woman and my wife if he _is_ goin' to die; an' if he isn't goin'
under this time, why, there's no harm in hurryin' a bit--wi' the moon,
too, shinin' like the bottom of a new tin kettle in the sky."

The chief had no objections to make.  There were plenty of men to guard
the camp, even when a few were withdrawn for the trip.  As Whitewing was
also willing, the order to mount and ride was given at once.

The absence of Moonlight and Skipping Rabbit had not at the time been
sufficiently prolonged to attract notice.  If they had been thought of
at all, it is probable they were supposed to be in one or other of the
wigwams.  As the moon could not be counted on beyond a certain time,
haste was necessary, and thus it came to pass that the party set forth
without any knowledge of the disappearance of the girls.

The "dear old one" was fain to journey like the rest on horseback, but
she was so well accustomed to that mode of locomotion that she suffered
much less than might have been expected.  Besides, her son had taken
care to secure for her the quietest, meekest, and most easy-going horse
belonging to the tribe--a creature whose natural spirit had been reduced
by hardship and age to absolute quiescence, and whose gait had been
trained down to something like a hobby-horse amble.

Seated astride of this animal, in gentleman fashion, the mother of
Whitewing swayed gently to and fro like a partially revived mummy of an
amiable type, with her devoted son on one side and Little Tim on the
other, to guard against accidents.

It chanced that the two parties of horsemen journeyed in nearly opposite
directions, so that every hour of the night separated them from each
other more and more.

It was not until Whitewing's party had proceeded far on their way to
Tim's Folly that suspicion began to be aroused and inquiry to be made in
the camp.  Then, as the two girls were nowhere to be found, the alarm
spread; the warriors sallied out, and the trail of the Blackfeet was
discovered.  It was not, however, until daylight came to their aid that
the Indians became fully aware of their loss, and sent out a strong band
in pursuit of their enemies, while a messenger was despatched in hot
haste to inform Little Tim and Bounding Bull that Moonlight and Skipping
Rabbit had been spirited away.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE PURSUIT, FAILURE, DESPAIR.

Ever dreaming of the thunderbolt that was about to be launched,
Whitewing, Little Tim, Bounding Bull, and the rest of the party arrived
at the little fortress in the gorge.

They found Big Tim on the _qui vive_, and Brighteyes with Whitewing's
mother was soon introduced to the wounded preacher.

The meeting of the three was impressive, for not only had they been much
attached at the time of the preacher's former visit, but the women were
deeply affected by the sad circumstances in which they found their old
friend.

"Not much changed, I see, Brighteyes," he said, as the two women sat
down on the floor beside his couch.  "Only a little stouter; just what
might have been expected.  God has been kind to you--but, indeed, God is
kind to all, only some do not see or believe in the kindness.  It is
equally kindness in Him whether He sends joy or sorrow, adversity or
prosperity.  If we only saw the end from the beginning, none of us would
quarrel with the way.  Love has induced Him to lay me low at present.
You have another child, I am told, besides Big Tim?"

"Yes, a daughter--Moonlight we call her," said Brighteyes, with a
pleased look.

"Is she here with you?"

"No; we left her in the camp."

"And my good old friend," he said, turning on his couch, and grasping
the withered hand of Whitewing's mother, "how has she prospered in all
these years?"

The "old one," who was, as we have said, as deaf as a post, wrinkled her
visage up into the most indescribable expression of world-embracing
benignity, expanded her old lips, displayed her toothless gums, and
chuckled.

"The dear old one," said her son, "bears the snows of many winters on
her head.  Her brain could not now be touched by the thunders of
Niagara.  But the eyes are still bright inlets to her soul."

"Bright indeed!" exclaimed the preacher, as he gazed with deep interest
at the old face; "wonderful, considering her great age.  I trust that
these portals may remain unclosed to her latest day on earth."

He was still talking to Whitewing about her when a peculiar whistle was
heard outside, as of some water-bird.

Instantly dead silence fell upon all present, and from the fixed gaze
and motionless attitude of each it was evident that they anxiously
expected a repetition of the sound.  It was not repeated, but a moment
later voices were heard outside, then a hurried step, and next instant
Big Tim sprang into the room.

"A messenger from the camp!" he cried.  "Moonlight and Skipping Rabbit
have been carried off by Blackfeet."

It could easily be seen at that moment how Bounding Bull had acquired
his name.  From a sitting posture he sprang to his feet at one bound,
darted through the doorway of the hut, cleared the low parapet like a
deer, and went down the zigzag path in a succession of leaps that might
have shamed a kangaroo.  Little Tim followed suit almost as vigorously,
accompanying his action with a leonine roar.  Big Tim was close on his
heels.

"Guard the fort, my son," gasped Little Tim, as he cut the thong that
secured his horse at the bottom of the track; "your mother's life is
precious, and Softswan's.  If you can quit safely, follow up."

Leaping into the saddle, he was next instant on the track of the Indian
chief, who had already disappeared.

Hurrying back to the hut, Big Tim proceeded to make hasty preparation
for the defence of the place, so that he might be able to join his
father.  He found the prairie chief standing with closed eyes beside the
couch of the preacher, who with folded hands and feeble voice was
praying to God for help.

"Is Whitewing indifferent to the misfortunes of his friends," he said
somewhat sharply, "that he stands idly by while the Blackfoot robbers
carry off our little ones?"

"My son, be not hasty," returned the chief.  "Prayer is quite as needful
as action.  Besides, I know all the land round here--the direction which
this youth tells me the enemy have taken, and a short cut over the
hills, which will enable you and me to cross the path your father must
take, and join him, so that we have plenty of time to make arrangements
and talk before we go on the war-path."

The cool, calm way in which the chief spoke, and especially the decided
manner in which he referred to a short cut and going on the war-path,
tended to quiet Big Tim.

"But what am I to do?" he said, with a look of perplexity.  "There are
men enough here, no doubt, to hold the place agin a legion o' Blackfeet,
but they have no dependable leader."

"Here is a leader on whom you can depend; I know him well," said
Whitewing, pointing to the warrior who had brought the news from the
camp.  "He is a stranger to you, but has been long in my band, and was
left by me in the camp to help to guard it in our absence.  With him
there, I should have thought the stealing of two girls impossible, but
he has explained that mystery by telling me that Moonlight crept out of
the camp like a serpent, unknown to all, for they found her trail.  With
Wolf in command and the preacher to give counsel and pray, the women
have no cause for fear."

Somewhat reassured, though he still felt uneasy at the thought of
leaving Softswan behind him, Big Tim went about his preparations for the
defence of the fortress and the rescue of his sister.  Such preparations
never take much time in the backwoods.  In half an hour Wolf and his
braves were ready for any amount of odds, and Big Tim was following the
prairie chief through the intricacies of the mountains.

These two made such good use of their time that they were successful in
intercepting and joining the war-party, which Bounding Bull, with his
friend and ally Little Tim, were leading by forced marches on the trail
of the Blackfeet.

Rushing River was well aware, however, that such a party would soon be
following him.  He therefore had advanced likewise by forced marches,
because his object was not so much to meet his enemy as to secure his
bride.  Only let him place her in the safe keeping of his mother with
the main body of his tribe, and he would then return on his steps with
pleasure, and give battle to his foe.

In this object he was successful.  After several days' march he handed
over Moonlight and Skipping Rabbit to the care of an old woman, whose
countenance was suggestive of wrinkled leather, and whose expression was
not compatible with sweetness.  It was evident to the captives that
Rushing River owed his manly bearing and his comparatively gentle
manners not to his mother but to the father, whose scalp, alas! hung
drying in the smoke of a foeman's wigwam.

During the forced march the Blackfoot chief had not once opened his lips
to the girl he loved.  He simply rode by her side, partly perhaps to
prevent any sudden attempt at flight, and certainly to offer assistance
when difficulties presented themselves on their pathless journey through
the great wilderness.  And on all such occasions he offered his aid with
such grave and dignified gentleness that poor Moonlight became more and
more impressed, though, to do her justice, she fought bravely against
her tendency to fall in love with her tribal foe.

On reaching home Rushing River, instead of leading his captive to his
own wigwam, conducted her, as we have said, to that of his mother.
Then, for the first time since the day of the capture, he addressed her
with a look of tenderness, which she had never before received except
from Little Tim, and, in a minor degree, from her brother.

"Moonlight," he said, "till my return you will be well cared for here by
my mother--the mother of Rushing River."

Having said this, he lifted the leathern door of the lodge and went out
instantly.

Moonlight had received a terrible shock.  Turning quickly to the old
woman, she said--

"Was that Rushing River?"

"That," replied the old woman, with a look of magnificent pride, "is my
son, Rushing River--the brave whose name is known far and wide in the
mountains and on the plains; whose enemies tremble and grow pale when
they hear of him, and who when they see him become dead--or run away!"

Here, then, was a discovery that was almost too much for the unfortunate
captive, for this man was the deadly foe of her father and of her
brother's father-in-law, Bounding Bull.  He was also the sworn enemy of
her tribe, and it now became her stern duty, as a true child of the
western wilderness, to hate with all her soul the man whom she loved!

Under the impulse of her powerful feelings she sat down, covered her
face with her little hands, and--no, she did not burst into tears!  Had
she been a civilised beauty perhaps she might have done so, but she
struggled for a considerable time with Spartan-like resolution to crush
down the true feelings of her heart.  Old Umqua was quite pleased with
the effect of her information, ascribing it as she did to a wrong cause,
and felt disposed to be friendly with the captive in consequence.

"My son has carried you off from the camp of some enemy, I doubt not?"
she said, in kindly tones.

Moonlight, who had by that time recovered her composure, replied that he
had--from the camp of Bounding Bull, whose little daughter he had
captured at the same time, and added that she herself was a daughter of
Little Tim.

It was now Umqua's turn to be surprised.

"What is that you tell me?" she exclaimed.  "Are you the child of the
little pale-face whose name extends from the regions of snow to the
lands of the hot sun?"

"I am," replied Moonlight, with a look of pride quite equal to and
rather more lovely than that of the old woman.

"Ha!" exclaimed Umqua, "you are a lucky girl.  I see by my son's look
and manner that he intends to take you for his wife.  I suppose he has
gone away just now, for I saw he was in haste, to scalp your father, and
your brother, and Bounding Bull, and all his tribe.  After that he will
come home and take you to his wigwam.  Rushing River is very brave and
very kind to women.  The men laugh at him behind his back--they dare not
laugh before his face--and say he is too kind to them; but we women
don't agree with that.  We know better, and we are fondest of the kind
men, for we see that they are not less brave than the others.  Yes, you
are a lucky girl."

Moonlight was not as deeply impressed with her "luck" as the old lady
expected, and was on the point of bursting out, after the manner of
savages, into a torrent of abuse of the Blackfoot race in general, and
of Rushing River in particular, when the thought that she was a captive
and at the mercy of the Blackfeet fortunately restrained her.  Instead
of answering, she cast her eyes on the ground and remained stolidly
silent, by which conduct she got credit for undeserved modesty.

"Where is the little one of that serpent Bounding Bull?" asked Umqua,
after a brief silence.

"I know not" replied Moonlight, with a look of anxiety.  "When we
arrived here Skipping Rabbit was separated from me.  She journeyed under
the care of a youth.  They called him, I think, Eaglenose."

"Is Skipping Rabbit the child's name?"

"Then Skipping Rabbit will skip more than ever, for Eaglenose is a funny
man when not on the war-path, and his mother is a good woman.  She does
not talk behind your back like other women.  You have nothing to fear
for Skipping Rabbit.  Come with me, we will visit the mother of
Eaglenose."

As the two moved through the Indian camp, Moonlight noticed that the men
were collecting and bridling their horses, cleaning and sharpening their
weapons, and making preparations generally for an expedition on a large
scale.  For a moment a feeling of fear filled her heart as she recalled
Umqua's remarks about scalping her kindred; but when she reflected how
well able her sturdy little father and big brother and Bounding Bull
were to take care of themselves, she smiled internally, and dismissed
her fears.

Long before they reached Eaglenose's mother's wigwam, Moonlight was
surprised to hear the well known voice of Skipping Rabbit shouting in
unrestrained peals of merry laughter.  On entering, the cause thereof
was at once apparent, for there sat Eaglenose beside his mother (whose
nose, by the way, was similar to his own) amusing the child with a
home-made jumping-jack.  Having seen a toy of this kind during one of
his visits to the settlements of the pale-faces, the Blackfoot youth had
made mental notes of it, and on his return home had constructed a
jumping-jack, which rendered him more popular in his tribe--especially
with the youngsters--than if he had been a powerful medicine-man or a
noted warrior.

When Moonlight entered, Skipping Rabbit was standing in front of
Eaglenose with clasped hands and glittering eyes, shrieking with delight
as the absurd creature of wood threw up its legs and arms, kicked its
own head, and all but dislocated its own limbs.  Catching sight of her
friend, however, she gave vent to another shriek with deeper delight in
it, and, bounding towards her, sprang into her arms.

Regarding this open display of affection with some surprise, and rightly
ascribing it to the influence of white blood in Bounding Bull's camp,
Umqua asked Eaglenose's mother if the men were getting ready to go on
the war-path.

"I know not.  Perhaps my son knows."

Thus directly referred to, Eaglenose, who was but a young warrior just
emancipated from boyhood, and who had yet to win his spurs, rose, and,
becoming so grave and owlish that his naturally prominent feature seemed
to increase in size, said sententiously--

"It is not for squaws to inquire into the plans of _men_, but as there
is no secret in what we are going to do, I may tell you, mother, that
women and children have not yet learned to live on grass or air.  We go
just now to procure fresh meat."

So saying, the stripling pitched the jumping-jack into the lap of
Skipping Rabbit, and strode out of the lodge with the pomposity of seven
chiefs!

That night, when the captives were lying side by side in Umqua's wigwam,
gazing at the stars through the hole which was left in the top for the
egress of the smoke, Moonlight said to her little friend--

"Does the skipping one know that it is Rushing River who has caught us
and carried us away?"

The skipping one said that she had not known, but, now that she did
know, she hated him with all her heart.

"So do I," said Moonlight firmly.  But Moonlight was wrong, for she
hated the man with only a very small portion of her heart, and loved him
with all the rest.  It was probably some faint recognition of this fact
that induced her to add with the intense energy of one who is resolved
to walk in the path of duty--"I hate _all_ the Blackfeet!"

"So do I," returned the child, and then pausing, slowly added,
"except"--and paused again.

"Well, who does the skipping one except?"

"Eaglenose," replied the skipper promptly.  "I can't hate _him_, he is
such a very funny brave."

After a prolonged silence Moonlight whispered--

"Does Skipping Rabbit sleep?"

"No."

"Is there not something in the great medicine-book that father speaks so
much about which teaches that we should love our enemies?"

"I don't know," replied the little one.  "Bounding Bull never taught
that to _me_."

Again there was silence, during which Moonlight hoped in a confused sort
of way that the teaching might be true.  Before she could come to a
conclusion on the perplexing point both she and her little friend were
in that mysterious region where the human body usually ceases to be
troubled by the human mind.

When Bounding Bull and Little Tim found that the Blackfoot chief had
escaped them, they experienced what is often termed among Christians a
great trial of faith.  They did not indeed express their thoughts in
language, but they could not quite prevent their looks from betraying
their feelings, while in their thoughts they felt sorely tempted to
charge God with indifference to their feelings, and even with something
like cruelty, in thus permitting the guilty to triumph and the innocent
to suffer.  The state of mind is not, indeed, unfamiliar to people who
are supposed to enjoy higher culture than the inhabitants of the
wilderness.  Even Whitewing's spirit was depressed for a time, and he
could offer no consolation to the bereaved fathers, or find much comfort
to himself; yet in the midst of all the mental darkness by which he was
at that time surrounded, two sentences which the pale-face missionary
had impressed on him gleamed forth now and then, like two flickering
stars in a very black sky.  The one was, "Shall not the Judge of all the
earth do right?" the other, "He doeth all things well."  But he did not
at that time try to point out the light to his companions.

Burning with rage, mingled somewhat with despair, the white hunter and
the red chief returned home in hot haste, bent on collecting a force of
men so strong that they would be enabled to go forth with the absolute
certainty of rescuing their children, or of avenging them by sweeping
the entire Blackfoot nation, root and branch, off the face of the earth;
and adorning the garments of their braves with their scalp-locks for
ages to come.

It may be easily believed that they did not waste time on the way.
Desperate men cannot rest.  To halt for a brief space in order to take
food and sleep just sufficient to sustain them was all the relaxation
they allowed themselves.  This was, of course, simply a process of
wearing out their strength, but they were very strong men, long inured
to hardships, and did not easily wear out.

One night they sat round the camp fire, very weary, and in silence.  The
fire was low and exceedingly small.  Indeed, they did not dare to
venture on a large one while near the enemy's country, and usually
contented themselves with a supper of cold, uncooked pemmican.  On this
night, however, they were more fatigued than usual--perhaps depression
of spirit had much to do with it--so they had kindled a fire and warmed
their supper.

"What are the thoughts of Bounding Bull?" said Little Tim, at length
breaking silence with something like a groan.

"Despair," replied the chief, with a dark frown; "and," he added, with a
touch of hesitation, "revenge."

"Your thoughts are not much different from mine," returned the hunter.

"My brothers are not wise," said Whitewing, after another silence.  "All
that Manitou does to His children is good.  I have hope."

"I wish my brother could give me some of his hope.  What does he rest
his hope on?" asked Little Tim.

"Long ago," answered the chief, "when Rushing River was a boy, the white
preacher spoke to him about his soul and the Saviour.  The boy's heart
was touched.  I saw it; I knew it.  The seed has lain long in the
ground, but it is sure to grow, for it must have been the Spirit of
Manitou that touched him; and will He not finish the work that He
begins?  That is my hope."

The chief's eyes glittered in the firelight while he spoke.  His two
companions listened with grave attention, but said no word in reply.
Yet it was evident, as they lay down for a few hours' rest, that the
scowl of revenge and the writing of despair had alike in some measure
departed from the brow of each.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE POWERFUL INFLUENCE OF BAD WEAPONS AND OF LOVE.

While the bereaved parents were thus hastening by forced marches to
their own camp, a band of Blackfeet was riding in another direction in
quest of buffalo, for their last supply of fresh meat had been nearly
consumed.  Along with them they took several women to dry the meat and
otherwise prepare it.  Among these were poor Moonlight and her friend
Skipping Rabbit, also their guardian Umqua.

Ever since their arrival in camp Rushing River had not only refrained
from speaking to his captives, but had carefully avoided them.
Moonlight was pleased at first but at last she began to wonder why he
was so shy, and, having utterly failed in her efforts to hate him, she
naturally began to feel a little hurt by his apparent indifference.

Very different was the conduct of Eaglenose, who also accompanied the
hunting expedition.  That vivacious youth, breaking through all the
customs and peculiarities of Red Indian etiquette, frequently during the
journey came and talked with Moonlight, and seemed to take special
pleasure in amusing Skipping Rabbit.

"Has the skipping one," he said on one occasion, "brought with her the
little man that jumps?" by which expression he referred to the
jumping-jack.

"Yes, he is with the pack-horses.  Does Eaglenose want to play with
him?"

Oh, she was a sly and precocious little rabbit, who had used well her
opportunities of association with Little Tim to pick up the ways and
manners of the pale-faces--to the surprise and occasional amusement of
her red relations, whom she frequently scandalised not a little.  Well
did she know how sensitive a young Indian brave is as to his dignity,
how he scorns to be thought childish, and how he fancies that he looks
like a splendid man when he struts with superhuman gravity, just as a
white boy does when he puts a cigar between his unfledged lips.  She
thought she had given a tremendous stab to the dignity of Eaglenose; and
so she had, yet it happened that the dignity of Eaglenose escaped,
because it was shielded by a buckler of fun so thick that it could not
easily be pierced by shafts of ridicule.

"Yes; I want to play with him," answered the youth, with perfect
gravity, but a twinkle of the eyes that did not escape Skipping Rabbit;
"I'm fond of playing with him, because he is your little husband, and I
want to make friends with the husband of the skipping one; he is so
active, and kicks about his arms and legs so well.  Does he ever kick
his little squaw?  I hope not."

"Oh yes, sometimes," returned the child.  "He kicked me last night
because I said he was so like Eaglenose."

"The little husband did well.  A wooden chief so grand did not like to
be compared to a poor young brave who has only begun to go on the
war-path, and has taken no scalps yet."

The mention of war-path and scalps had the effect of quieting the poor
child's tendency to repartee.  She thought of her father and Little Tim,
and became suddenly grave.

Perceiving and regretting this, the young Indian hastily changed the
subject of conversation.

"The Blackfeet," he said, "have heard much about the great pale-faced
chief called Leetil Tim.  Does the skipping one know Leetil Tim?"

The skipping one, whose good humour was quite restored at the mere
mention of her friend's name, said that she not only knew him, but loved
him, and had been taught many things by him.

"I suppose he taught you to speak and act like the pale-faced squaws?"
said Eaglenose.

"I suppose he did," returned the child, with a laugh, "and Moonlight
helped him.  But perhaps it is also because I have white blood in me.
My mother was a pale-face."

"That accounts for Skipping Rabbit being so ready to laugh, and so fond
of fun," said the youth.

"Was the father of Eaglenose a pale-face?" asked the child.

"No; why?"

"Because Eaglenose is as ready to laugh and as fond of fun as Skipping
Rabbit.  If his father was not a pale-face, he could not I think, have
been very red."

What reply the youth would have made to this we cannot tell, for at that
moment scouts came in with the news that buffalo had been seen grazing
on the plain below.

Instantly the bustle of preparation for the chase began.  The women were
ordered to encamp and get ready to receive the meat.  Scouts were sent
out in various directions, and the hunters advanced at a gallop.

The region through which they were passing at the time was marked by
that lovely, undulating, park-like scenery which lies in some parts
between the rugged slopes of the mountain range and the level expanse of
the great prairies.  Its surface was diversified by both kinds of
landscape--groups of trees, little knolls, stretches of forest, and
occasional cliffs, being mingled with wide stretches of grassy plain,
with rivulets here and there to add to the wild beauty of the scene.

After a short ride over the level ground the Blackfeet came to a fringe
of woodland, on the other side of which they were told by the scouts a
herd of buffalo had been seen browsing on a vast sweep of open plain.

Riding cautiously through the wood, they came to the edge of it and
dismounted, while Rushing River and Eaglenose advanced alone and on foot
to reconnoitre.

Coming soon to that outer fringe of bushes, beyond which there was no
cover, they dropped on hands and knees and went forward in that manner
until they reached a spot whence a good view of the buffalo could be
obtained.  The black eyes of the two Indians glittered, and the red of
their bronzed faces deepened with emotion as they gazed.  And truly it
was a sight well calculated to stir to the very centre men whose chief
business of life was the chase, and whose principal duty was to procure
food for their women and children, for the whole plain away to the
horizon was dotted with groups of those monarchs of the western
prairies.  They were grazing quietly, as though such things as the
rattle of guns, the whiz of arrows, the thunder of horse-hoofs, and the
yells of savages had never sounded in their ears.

The chief and the young brave exchanged impressive glances, and retired
in serpentine fashion from the scene.

A few minutes later, and the entire band of horsemen--some with bows and
a few with guns--stood at the outmost edge of the bushes that fringed
the forest land.  Beyond this there was no cover to enable them to
approach nearer to the game without being seen, so preparation was made
for a sudden dash.

The huge rugged creatures on the plain continued to browse peacefully,
giving an occasional toss to their enormous manes, raising a head now
and then, as if to make sure that all was safe, and then continuing to
feed, or giving vent to a soft low of satisfaction.  It seemed cruel to
disturb so much enjoyment and serenity with the hideous sounds of war.
But man's necessities must be met.  Until Eden's days return there is no
deliverance for the lower animals.  Vegetarians may reduce their
theories to practice in the cities and among cultivated fields, but
vegetarians among the red men of the Far West or the squat men of the
Arctic zone, would either have to violate their principles or die.

As Rushing River had no principles on the subject, and was not prepared
for voluntary death, he gave a signal to his men, and in an instant
every horse was elongated, with ears flat nostrils distended, and eyes
flashing, while the riders bent low, and mingled their black locks with
the flying manes.

For a few seconds no sound was heard save the muffled thunder of the
hoofs, at which the nearest buffaloes looked up with startled inquiry in
their gaze.  Another moment, and the danger was appreciated.  The mighty
host went off with pig-like clumsiness--tails up and manes tossing.
Quickly the pace changed to desperate agility as the pursuing savages,
unable to restrain themselves, relieved their feelings with terrific
yells.

As group after group of astonished animals became aware of the attack
and joined in the mad flight the thunder on the plains swelled louder
and louder, until it became one continuous roar--like the sound of a
rushing cataract--a bovine Niagara!  At first the buffaloes and the
horses seemed well matched, but by degrees the superiority of the latter
became obvious, as the savages drew nearer and nearer to the flying
mass.  Soon a puff or two of smoke, a whistling bullet and a whizzing
arrow told that the action had begun.  Here and there a black spot
struggling on the plain gave stronger evidence.  Then the hunters and
hunted became mixed up, the shots and whizzing were more frequent, the
yells more terrible, and the slaughter tremendous.  No fear now that
Moonlight, and Skipping Rabbit, and Umqua, and all the rest of them, big
and little, would not have plenty of juicy steaks and marrow-bones for
many days to come.

But all this was not accomplished without some damage to the hunters.
Here and there a horse, having put his foot into a badger-hole, was seen
to continue his career for a short space like a wheel or a shot hare,
while his rider went ahead independently like a bird, and alighted--
anyhow!  Such accidents, however, seldom resulted in much damage, red
skin being probably tougher than white, and savage bones less brittle
than civilised.  At all events, nothing very serious occurred until the
plain was pretty well strewn with wounded animals.

Then it was that Eaglenose, in his wild ambition to become the best
hunter of the tribe, as well as the best warrior, singled out an old
bull, and gave chase to him.  This was wanton as well as foolish, for
bulls are dangerous and their meat is tough.  What cared Eaglenose for
that?  The spirit of his fathers was awakened in him (a bad spirit
doubtless), and his blood was up.  Besides, Rushing River was close
alongside of him, and several emulous braves were close behind.

Eaglenose carried a bow.  Urging his steed to the uttermost he got close
up to the bull.  Fury was in the creature's little eyes, and madness in
its tail.  When a buffalo bull cocks its tail with a little bend in the
middle thereof, it is time to "look out for squalls."

"Does Eaglenose desire to hunt with his fathers in the happy
hunting-grounds?" muttered Rushing River.

"Eaglenose knows not fear," returned the youth boastfully.

As he spoke he bent his bow, and discharged an arrow.  He lacked the
precision of Robin Hood.  The shaft only grazed the bull's shoulder, but
that was enough.  A Vesuvian explosion seemed to heave in his capacious
bosom, and found vent in a furious roar.  Round he went like an
opera-dancer on one leg, and lowered his shaggy head.  The horse's chest
went slap against it as might an ocean-billow against a black rock, and
the rider, describing a curve with a high trajectory, came heavily down
upon his eagle nose.

It was an awful crash, and after it the poor youth lay prone for a few
minutes with his injured member in the dust--literally, for he had
ploughed completely through the superincumbent turf.

Fortunately for poor Eaglenose, Rushing River carried a gun, with which
he shot the bull through the heart and galloped on.  So did the other
Indians.  They were not going to miss the sport for the sake of helping
a fallen comrade to rise.

When at last the unfortunate youth raised his head he presented an
appearance which would have justified the change of his name to
Turkeycocknose, so severe was the effect of his fall.

Getting into a sitting posture, the poor fellow at first looked dazed.
Then observing something between his eyes that was considerably larger
than even he had been accustomed to, he gently raised his hand to his
face and touched it.  The touch was painful, so he desisted.  Then he
arose, remounted his steed, which stood close to him, looking stupid
after the concussion, and followed the hunt, which by that time was on
the horizon.

But something worse was in store for another member of the band that
day.  After killing the buffalo bull, as before described, the chief
Rushing River proceeded to reload his gun.

Now it must be known that in the days we write of the firearms supplied
to the Nor'-west Indians were of very inferior quality.  They were
single flint-lock guns, with blue-stained barrels of a dangerously
brittle character, and red-painted brass-mounted stocks, that gave them
the appearance of huge toys.  It was a piece of this description which
Rushing River carried, and which he proceeded to reload in the usual
manner--that is, holding the gun under his left arm, he poured some
powder from a horn into his left palm; this he poured from his palm into
the gun, and, without wadding or ramming, dropped after the powder a
bullet from his mouth, in which magazine he carried several bullets so
as to be ready.  Then driving the butt of the gun violently against the
pommel of the saddle, so as to send the whole charge home and cause the
weapon to prime itself, he aimed at the buffalo and fired.

Charges thus loosely managed do not always go quite "home."  In this
case the ball had stuck half-way down, and when the charge exploded the
gun burst and carried away the little finger of the chief's left hand.
But it did more.  A piece of the barrel struck the chief on the head,
and he fell from his horse as if he had been shot.

This catastrophe brought the hunt to a speedy close.  The Indians
assembled round their fallen chief with faces graver, if possible, than
usual.  They bound up his wounds as well as they could, and made a
rough-and-ready stretcher out of two poles and a blanket, in which they
carried him into camp.  During the greater part of the short journey he
was nearly if not quite unconscious.  When they at length laid him down
in his tent, his mother, although obviously anxious, maintained a stern
composure peculiar to her race.

Not so the captive Moonlight.  When she saw the apparently dead form of
Rushing River carried into his tent, covered with blood and dust, her
partially white spirit was not to be restrained.  She uttered a sharp
cry, which slightly roused the chief, and, springing to his side, went
down on her knees and seized his hand.  The action was involuntary and
almost momentary.  She recovered herself at once, and rose quickly, as
grave and apparently as unmoved as the reddest of squaws.  But Rushing
River had noted the fact, and divined the cause.  The girl loved him!  A
new sensation of almost stern joy filled his heart.  He turned over on
his side without a look or word to any one, and calmly went to sleep.

We have already said, or hinted, that Rushing River was a peculiar
savage.  He was one of those men--perhaps not so uncommon as we think--
who hold the opinion that women are not made to be mere beasts of
burden, makers of moccasins and coats, and menders of leggings, cookers
of food, and, generally, the slaves of men.  One consequence was that he
could not bear the subdued looks and almost cringing gait of the
Blackfoot belles, and had remained a bachelor up to the date of our
story.

He preferred to live with his mother, who, by the way, was also an
exception to the ordinary class of squaws.  She was rudely intellectual
and violently self-assertive, though kind-hearted withal.

That night when his mother chanced to be alone in the tent, he held some
important conversation with her.  Moonlight happened to be absent at a
jumping-jack entertainment with Skipping Rabbit in the tent of
Eaglenose, the youth himself being the performer in spite of his nose!
Most of the other women in the camp were at the place where the buffalo
were being cut up and dried and converted into pemmican.

"Mother," said Rushing River, who in reality had been more stunned than
injured--excepting, of course, the little finger, which was indeed gone
past recovery.

"My son," said Umqua, looking attentively in the chief's eyes.

"The eagle has been brought down at last.  Rushing River will be the
same man no more.  He has been hit in his heart."

"I think not, my son," returned Umqua, looking somewhat anxious.  "A
piece of the bad gun struck the head of Rushing River, but his breast is
sound.  Perhaps he is yet stunned, and had better sleep again."

"I want not sleep, mother," replied the chief in figurative language;
"it is not the bursting gun that has wounded me, but a spear of light--a
moonbeam."

"Moonlight!" exclaimed Umqua, with sudden intelligence.

"Even so, mother; Rushing River has at last found a mate in Moonlight."

"My son is wise," said Umqua.

"I will carry the girl to the camp of mine enemy," continued the chief,
"and deliver her to her father."

"My son is a fool," said Umqua.

"Wise, and a fool!  Can that be possible, mother?" returned the chief
with a slight smile.

"Yes, quite possible," said the woman promptly.  "Man can be wise at one
time, foolish at another--wise in one act, foolish in another.  To take
Moonlight to your tent is wise.  I love her.  She has brains.  She is
not like the young Blackfoot squaws, who wag their tongues without
ceasing when they have nothing to say and never think--brainless ones!--
fools!  Their talk is only about each other behind-backs and of
feeding."

"The old one is hard upon the young ones," said the chief gravely; "not
long ago I heard the name of Umqua issue from a wigwam.  The voice that
spoke was that of the mother of Eaglenose.  Rushing River listens not to
squaws' tales, but he cannot stop his ears.  The words floated to him
with the smoke of their fire.  They were, `Umqua has been very kind to
me.'  I heard no more."

"The mother of Eaglenose is not such a fool as the rest of them," said
Umqua, in a slightly softer tone; "but why does my son talk foolishness
about going to the tents of his enemy, and giving up a girl who it is
easy to see is good and wise and true, and a hard worker, and _not_ a
fool?"

"Listen, mother.  It is because Moonlight is all that you say, and much
more, that I shall send her home.  Besides, I have come to know that the
pale-face who was shot by one of our braves is the preacher whose words
went to my heart when I was a boy.  I _must_ see him."

"But Bounding Bull and Leetil Tim will certainly kill you."

"Leetil Tim is not like the red men," returned the chief; "he does not
love revenge.  My enemy Bounding Bull hunts with him much, and has taken
some of his spirit.  I am a red man.  I love revenge because my fathers
loved it; but there is something within me that is not satisfied with
revenge.  I will go alone and unarmed.  If they kill me, they shall not
be able to say that Rushing River was a coward."

"My son is weak; his fall has injured him."

"Your son is strong, mother.  His love for Moonlight has changed him."

"If you go you will surely die, my son."

"I fear not death, mother.  I feel that within me which is stronger than
death."



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

IN WHICH PLANS, PROSPECTS, LOVE, DANGERS, AND PERPLEXITIES ARE DEALT
WITH.

Three days after the conversation related in the last chapter, a party
on horseback, numbering five persons, left the Blackfoot camp, and,
entering one of the patches of forest with which the eastern slopes of
the mountains were clothed, trotted smartly away in the direction of the
rising sun.

The party consisted of Rushing River and his mother, Moonlight, Skipping
Rabbit, and Eaglenose.

The latter, although still afflicted with a nose the swelled condition
of which rendered it out of all proportion to his face, and interfered
somewhat with his vision, was sufficiently recovered to travel, and also
to indulge his bantering talk with the "skipping one," as he called his
little friend.  The chief was likewise restored, excepting the stump of
the little finger, which was still bandaged.  Umqua had been prevailed
on to accompany her son, and it is only just to the poor woman to add
that she believed herself to be riding to a martyr's doom.  The chief
however, did not think so, else he would not have asked her to accompany
him.

Each of the party was mounted on a strong horse, except Skipping Rabbit,
who bestrode an active pony more suited to her size.  We say bestrode,
because it must ever be borne in remembrance that Red India ladies ride
like gentlemen--very much, no doubt, to their own comfort.

Although Rushing River had resolved to place himself unarmed in the
power of his enemy, he had no intention of travelling in that helpless
condition in a country where he was liable to meet with foes, not only
among men but among beasts.  Besides, as he carried but a small supply
of provisions, he was dependent on gun and bow for food.  Himself,
therefore, carried the former weapon, Eaglenose the latter, and both
were fully armed with hatchet, tomahawk, and scalping-knife.

The path--if such it may be called--which they followed was one which
had been naturally formed by wild animals and wandering Indians taking
the direction that was least encumbered with obstructions.  It was only
wide enough for one to pass at a time, but after the first belt of
woodland had been traversed, it diverged into a more open country, and
finally disappeared, the trees and shrubs admitting of free passage in
all directions.

While in the narrow track the chief had headed the little band.  Then
came Moonlight, followed by Umqua and by Skipping Rabbit on her pony,
Eaglenose bringing up the rear.

On emerging, however, into the open ground, Rushing River drew rein
until Moonlight came up alongside of him.  Eaglenose, who was quick to
profit by example--especially when he liked it--rode up alongside of the
skipping one, who welcomed him with a decidedly pale-face smile, which
showed that she had two rows of bright little teeth behind her laughing
lips.

"Is Moonlight glad," said the chief to the girl, after riding beside her
for some time in silence, "is Moonlight glad to return to the camp of
Bounding Bull?"

"Yes, I am glad," replied the girl, choosing rather to answer in the
matter-of-fact manner of the pale-faces than in the somewhat imaginative
style of the Indians.  She could adopt either, according to inclination.

There was a long pause, during which no sound was heard save the regular
patter of the hoofs on the lawn-like turf as they swept easily out and
in among the trees, over the undulations, and down into the hollows, or
across the level plains.

"Why is Moonlight glad?" asked the chief.

"Because father and mother are there, and I love them both."

Again there was silence, for Moonlight had replied some what brusquely.
The truth is that, although rejoicing in the prospect of again seeing
her father and mother, the poor girl had a lurking suspicion that a
return to them meant final separation from Rushing River, and--although
she was too proud to admit, even to herself, that such a thought
affected her in any way--she felt very unhappy in the midst of her
rejoicing, and knew not what to make of it.  This condition of mind, as
the reader knows, is apt to make any one lower than an angel somewhat
testy!

On coming to a rising ground, up which they had to advance at a walking
pace, the chief once more broke silence in a low, soft voice--

"Is not Moonlight sorry to quit the Blackfoot camp?"

The girl was taken by surprise, for she had never before heard an
Indian--much less a chief--address a squaw in such a tone, or condescend
to such a question.  A feeling of self-reproach induced her to reply
with some warmth--

"Yes, Rushing River, Moonlight is sorry to quit the lodges of her
Blackfoot friends.  The snow on the mountain-tops is warmed by the
sunshine until it melts and flows down to the flowering plains.  The
heart of Moonlight was cold and hard when it entered the Blackfoot camp,
but the sunshine of kindness has melted it, and now that it flows
towards the grassy plains of home, Moonlight thinks with tenderness of
the past, and will _never_ forget."

Rushing River said no more.  Perhaps he thought the reply, coupled with
the look and tone, was sufficiently satisfactory.  At all events, he
continued thereafter to ride in profound silence, and, checking his
steed almost imperceptibly, allowed his mother to range up on the other
side of him.

Meanwhile Eaglenose and Skipping Rabbit, being influenced by no
considerations of delicacy or anything else, kept up a lively
conversation in rear.  For Eaglenose, like his chief, had freed himself
from some of the trammels of savage etiquette.

It would take up too much valuable space to record all the nonsense that
these two talked to each other, but a few passages are worthy of notice.

"Skipping one," said the youth, after a brief pause, "what are your
thoughts doing?"

"Swelled-nosed one," replied the child, with a laugh at her own
inventive genius, "I was thinking what a big hole you must have made in
the ground when you got that fall."

"It was not shallow," returned the youth, with assumed gravity.  "It was
big enough to have buried a rabbit in, even a skipping one."

"Would there have been room for a jumping-jack too?" asked the child,
with equal gravity; then, without waiting for an answer, she burst into
a merry laugh, and asked where they were travelling to.

"Has not Moonlight told you?"

"No, when I asked her about it yesterday she said she was not quite
sure, it would be better not to speak till she knew."

"Moonlight is very wise--almost as wise as a man."

"Yes, wiser even than some men with swelled noses."

It was now the youth's turn to laugh, which he did quite heartily, for
an Indian, though with a strong effort to restrain himself.

"We are going, I believe," he said, after a few moments' thought, "to
visit your father, Bounding Bull.  At least the speech of Rushing River
led Eaglenose to think so, but our chief does not say all that is in his
mind.  He is not a squaw--at least, not a skipping one."

Instead of retorting, the child looked with sudden anxiety into the
countenance of her companion.

"Does Rushing River," she asked, with earnest simplicity, "want to have
his tongue slit, his eyes poked in, his liver pulled out, and his scalp
cut off?"

"I think not," replied Eaglenose, with equal simplicity, for although
such a speech from such innocent lips may call forth surprise in a
civilised reader, it referred, in those regions and times, to
possibilities which were only too probable.

After a few minutes' thought the child said, with an earnest look in her
large and lustrous eyes, "Skipping Rabbit will be glad--very glad--to
see her father, but she will be sorry--very sorry--to lose her friends."

Having now made it plain that the feelings of both captives had been
touched by the kindness of their captors, we will transport them and the
reader at once to the neighbourhood of Bounding Bull's camp.

Under the same tree on the outskirts which had been the scene of the
girls' capture, Rushing River and Eaglenose stood once more with their
companions, conversing in whispers.  The horses had been concealed a
long way in rear, to prevent restiveness or an incidental neigh
betraying them.

The night was intensely dark and still.  The former condition favoured
their enterprise, but the latter was unfavourable, as it rendered the
risk of detection from any accidental sound much greater.

After a few minutes' talk with his male companion, the chief approached
the tree where the females stood silently wondering what their captors
meant to do, and earnestly hoping that no evil might befall any one.

"The time has come," he said, "when Moonlight may help to make peace
between those who are at war.  She knows well how to creep like the
serpent in the grass, and how to speak with her tongue in such a way
that the heart of the listener will be softened while his ear is
charmed.  Let Moonlight creep into the camp, and tell Bounding Bull that
his enemy is subdued; that the daughter of Leetil Tim has conquered him;
that he wishes for friendship, and is ready to visit his wigwam, and
smoke the pipe of peace.  But tell not that Rushing River is so near.
Say only that Moonlight has been set free; that Manitou of the
pale-faces has been whispering in the heart of Rushing River, and he no
longer delights in revenge or wishes for the scalp of Bounding Bull.  Go
secretly, for I would not have the warriors know of your return till you
have found out the thoughts of the chief.  If the ear of the chief is
open and his answer is favourable, let Moonlight sound the chirping of a
bird, and Rushing River will enter the camp without weapons, and trust
himself to the man who was once his foe.  If the answer is unfavourable,
let her hoot like the owl three times, and Rushing River will go back to
the home of his fathers, and see the pleasant face of Moonlight no
more."

To say that Moonlight was touched by this speech would give but a feeble
description of her feelings.  The unusual delicacy of it for an Indian,
the straightforward declaration implied in it and the pathetic
conclusion, would have greatly flattered her self-esteem, even if it had
not touched her heart.  Yet no sign did she betray of emotion, save the
somewhat rapid heaving of her bosom as she stood with bowed head,
awaiting further orders.

"Moonlight will find Skipping Rabbit waiting for her here beside this
tree.  Whether Bounding Bull is for peace or war, Rushing River returns
to him his little one.  Go, and may the hand of Manitou guide thee."

He turned at once and rejoined Eaglenose, who was standing on guard like
a statue at no great distance.

Moonlight went immediately and softly into the bushes, without pausing
to utter a single word to her female companions, and disappeared.

Thereupon the chief and his young brave lay down, and, resting there in
profound silence, awaited the result with deep but unexpressed anxiety.

Well did our heroine know every bush and rock of the country around her.
With easy, soundless motion she glided along like a flitting shadow
until she gained the line of sentries who guarded the camp.  Here, as on
a former occasion, she sank into the grass, and advanced with extreme
caution.  If she had not possessed more than the average capacity of
savages for stalking, it would have been quite impossible for her to
have eluded the vigilance of the young warriors.  As it was, she
narrowly escaped discovery, for, just as she was crossing what may he
termed the guarded line, one of the sentinels took it into his head to
move in her direction.  Of course she stopped and lay perfectly flat and
still, but so near did the warrior come in passing that his foot
absolutely grazed her head.  But for the intense darkness of the night
she would have inevitably been caught.

Creeping swiftly out of the sentinel's way before he returned, she
gained the centre of the camp, and in a few minutes was close to her
father's wigwam.  Finding a little hole in the buffalo-skins of which it
was chiefly composed, she peeped in.

To her great disappointment, Little Tim was not there, but Brighteyes
was, and a youth whom she knew well as one who was about to join the
ranks of the men, and go out on his first war-path on the first occasion
that offered.

Although trained to observe the gravity and reticence of the Indian,
this youth was gifted by nature with powers of loquacity which he found
it difficult to suppress.  Knowing this, Moonlight felt that she dared
not trust him with her secret, and was much perplexed how to attract her
mother's attention without disturbing him.  At last she crept round to
the side of the tent where her mother was seated, opposite to the youth.
Putting her lips to another small hole which she found there, she
whispered "Mother," so softly that Brighteyes did not hear, but went
calmly on with her needlework, while the aspirant for Indian honours
sent clouds of tobacco from his mouth and nose, and dreamed of awful
deeds of daring, which were probably destined to end also in smoke.

"Mother!" whispered Moonlight again.

The whisper, though very slightly increased, was evidently heard, for
the woman became suddenly motionless, and turned slightly pale, while
her lustrous eyes gazed at the spot whence the sound had come.

"What does Brighteyes see?" asked the Indian youth, expelling a cloud
from his lips and also gazing.

"I thought I heard--my Moonlight--whisper."

A look of grave contempt settled on the youth's visage as he replied--

"When love is strong, the eyes are blind and the ears too open.
Brighteyes hears voices in the night air."

Having given utterance to this sage opinion with the sententious
solemnity of an oracle, or the portentous gravity of "an ass"--as modern
slang might put it--the youth resumed his pipe and continued the
stupefaction of his brain.

The woman was not sorry that her visitor took the matter thus, for she
had felt the imprudence of having betrayed any symptom of surprise,
whatever the sound might be.  When, therefore, another whisper of
"Mother!" was heard, instead of looking intelligent, she bestowed some
increased attention on her work, yawned sleepily once or twice, and then
said--

"Is there not a council being held to-night?"

"There is.  The warriors are speaking now."

"Does not the young brave aspire to raising his voice in council?"

"He does," replied the youth, puffing with a look of almost superhuman
dignity, "but he may not raise his voice in council till he has been on
the war-path."

"I should have thought," returned Brighteyes, with the slightest
possible raising of her eyebrows, "that a brave who aims so high would
find it more pleasant to be near the council tent talking with the other
young braves than to sit smoking beside a squaw."

The youth took the hint rather indignantly, rose, and strode out of the
tent in majestic silence.

No sooner was he gone than Moonlight darted in and fell into her mothers
arms.  There was certainly more of the pale-face than of the red man's
spirit in the embrace that followed, but the spirit of the red man soon
reasserted itself.

"Mother," she said eagerly and impressively, "Rushing River is going to
be my husband!"

"Child," exclaimed the matron, while her countenance fell, "can the dove
mate with the raven? the rabbit with the wolf?"

"They can, for all I care or know to the contrary," said Moonlight--
impelled, no doubt, by the spirit of Little Tim.  "But" she continued
quickly, "I bear a message to Bounding Bull.  Where is he?"

"Not in the camp, my daughter.  He has gone to the block-house to see
the preacher."

"And father.  Is he here?"

"No, he has gone with Bounding Bull.  There is no chief in the camp just
now--only the young braves to guard it."

"How well they guard it--when I am here!" said the girl, with a laugh;
then, becoming intensely earnest, she told her mother in as few words as
possible the object of her visit, concluding with the very pertinent
question, "Now, what is to be done?"

"You dare not allow Rushing River to enter the camp just now," said
Brighteyes.  "The young men would certainly kill him."

"But I must not send him away," returned the perplexed Moonlight.  "If I
do, I--I shall never--he will never more return."

"Could you not creep out of camp as you crept in and warn him?"

"I could, as far as the sentinels are concerned, for they are little
better than owls; but it is growing lighter now, and the moon will be up
soon--I dare not risk it.  If I were caught, would not the braves
suspect something, and scour the country round?  I know not what to do,
yet something _must_ be done at once."

For some minutes the mother and daughter were silent, each striving to
devise some method of escaping from their difficulty.  At last
Brighteyes spoke.

"I see a way, my child," she said, with more than her wonted solemnity,
even when discussing grave matters.  "It is full of danger, yet you must
take it, for I see that love has taken possession of my Moonlight's
heart, and--there is no withstanding love!"

She paused thoughtfully for a few moments, and then resumed--

"One of your father's horses is hobbled down in the willow swamp.  He
put it there because the feeding is good, and has left no one to guard
it because the place is not easily found, as you know, and thieves are
not likely to think of it as a likely place.  What you must do is to go
as near our lines as you dare, and give the signal of the owl.  Rushing
River will understand it, and go away at once.  He will not travel fast,
for his heart will be heavy, and revenge to him is no longer sweet.
That will give you time to cross the camp, creep past the sentinels, run
down to the swamp, mount the horse, and go by the short cuts that you
know of until you get in front of the party or overtake them.  After
that you must lead them to the block-house," (Brighteyes never would
consent to call it Tim's Folly after she understood the meaning of the
name), "and let the chief manage the rest.  Go.  You have not a moment
to lose."

She gave her daughter a final embrace, pushed her out of the tent and
then sat down with the stoicism of a Red Indian to continue her work and
listen intently either for the savage yells which would soon indicate
the failure of the enterprise, or the continued silence which would
gradually prove its success.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT.

Moonlight sauntered through the camp carelessly at first with a blanket
over her head after the manner of Indian women; but on approaching the
outskirts, nearest to the spot where Rushing River was concealed, she
discarded the blanket, sank into the grass like a genuine apparition,
and disappeared.  After creeping a short way, she ventured to give the
three hoots of the owl.

An Indian brave, whose eyes were directed sentimentally to the stars, as
though he were thinking of his lady-love--or buffalo steaks and
marrow-bones--cocked his ears and lowered his gaze to earth, but as
nothing more was to be seen or heard, he raised his eyes and thoughts
again to love--or marrow-bones.

Very different, as may be supposed, was the effect of those three hoots
upon Rushing River, as he lay on the grass in perfect silence, listening
intently.  On hearing the sounds, he sprang up as though an arrow had
pierced him, and for a few moments the furious glare of a baffled savage
gleamed in his dark eyes, as he laid a hand on his tomahawk; but the
action was momentary, and in a short time the look passed away.  It was
succeeded by a calm aspect and demeanour, which seemed to indicate a man
devoid of all feeling--good or bad.

"Skipping Rabbit," he said, taking the hand of the child in his, and
patting her head, "you are soon to be with your father--and with
Moonlight.  Rushing River goes back to his people.  But the skipping one
must not move from this tree till some of her people come to fetch her.
There is danger in moving--perfect safety in sitting still."

He moved as if about to go, but suddenly turned back and kissed the
child.  Then he muttered something in a low tone to his companions, and
strode into the dark forest.

Umqua then advanced and gave the little one a tremendous hug.  She was
evidently struggling to suppress her feelings, for she could hardly
speak as she said--

"I--I _must_ go, dear child.  Rushing River commands.  Umqua has no
choice but to obey."  She could say no more, but, after another
prolonged hug, ran rapidly away.

Hitherto Eaglenose had stood motionless, looking on, with his arms
folded.  Poor boy! he was engaged in the hardest fight that he had yet
experienced in his young life, for had he not for the first time found a
congenial playmate--if we may venture to put it so--and was she not
being torn from him just as he was beginning to understand her value?
He had been trained, however, in a school where contempt of pain and
suffering was inculcated more sternly even than among the Spartans of
old.

"Skipping one," he said, in a low, stern voice, "Eaglenose must leave
you, for his chief commands, but he will laugh and sing no more."

Even through her tears the skipping one could scarce forbear smiling at
the tone in which this was uttered.  Fortunately, her face could not be
seen.

"O yes, you will laugh and sing again," she said, "when your nose is
better."

"No, that cannot be," returned the youth, who saw--indeed the child
intended--nothing humorous in the remark.  "No, I will never more laugh,
or pull the string of the jumping-jack; but," he added, with sudden
animation, as a thought struck him, "Eaglenose will bring the
jumping-jack to the camp of Bounding Bull, and put it in the hands of
the skipping one, though his scalp should swing for it in the smoke of
her father's wigwam."

He stooped, took the little face between his hands, and kissed it on
both cheeks.

"Don't--don't leave me," said the child, beginning to whimper.

"The chief commands, and Eaglenose must obey," said the youth.

He gently unclasped the little hands, and silently glided into the
forest.

Meanwhile Moonlight, utterly forgetting amid her anxieties the
arrangement about Skipping Rabbit, sauntered back again through the camp
till she reached the opposite extremity, which lay nearest to the willow
swamp.  The lines here were not guarded so carefully, because the nature
of the ground rendered that precaution less needful.  She therefore
managed to pass the sentinels without much difficulty, and found, as she
had been told, that one of her father's horses was feeding near the
willow swamp.  Its two fore-legs were fastened together to prevent it
straying, so that she caught it easily.  Having provided herself with a
strong supple twig, she cut the hobbles, vaulted lightly on the horse's
back, and went off at a smart gallop.

Moonlight did not quite agree with her mother as to the effect of
disappointment on her lover.  Although heaviness of heart might possibly
induce him to ride slowly, she thought it much more likely that
exasperation of spirit would urge him to ride with reckless fury.
Therefore she plied her switch vigorously, and, the light increasing as
she came to more open ground, she was able to speed swiftly over a wide
stretch of country, with which she had been familiar from childhood, in
the hope of intercepting the Blackfoot chief.

After a couple of hours' hard riding, she came to a narrow pass through
which she knew her lover must needs go if he wished to return home by
the same path that had led him to the camp of his enemy.  Jumping
quickly from her steed, she went down on her knees and examined the
track.  A sigh of relief escaped her, for it was evident that no one had
passed there that day towards the west.  There was just a bare
possibility, however, that the chief had taken another route homeward,
but Moonlight tried hard to shut her eyes to that fact, and, being
sanguine of temperament she succeeded.

Retiring into a thicket, she tied her horse to a tree, and then returned
to watch the track.

While seated there on a fallen tree, thinking with much satisfaction of
some of her recent adventures, she suddenly conceived a little plot,
which was more consistent with the character of Skipping Rabbit than
herself, and rose at once to put it into execution.  With a knife which
she carried in her girdle she cut and broke down the underwood at the
side of the track, and tramped about so as to make a great many
footmarks.  Then, between that point and the thicket where her steed was
concealed, she walked to and fro several times, cutting and breaking the
branches as she went, so as to make a wide trail, and suggest the idea
of a hand-to-hand conflict having taken place there.  She was enabled to
make these arrangements all the more easily that the moon was by that
time shining brightly, and revealing objects almost as clearly as if it
had been noonday.

Returning to the pass, she took off the kerchief with which she usually
bound up her luxuriant brown hair, and placed it in the middle of the
track, with her knife lying beside it.  Having laid this wicked little
trap to her satisfaction, she retired to a knoll close at hand, from
which she could see her kerchief and knife on the one hand and her horse
on the other.  Then she concealed herself behind the trunk of a tree.

Now it chanced at that very time that four of the young braves of
Bounding Bull's camp, who had been sent out to hunt were returning home
laden with venison, and they happened to cross the trail of Moonlight at
a considerable distance from the pass just mentioned.  Few things escape
the notice of the red men of the west.  On seeing the trail, they flung
down their loads, examined the prints of the hoofs, rose up, glared at
each other, and then ejaculated "Hough!"  "Ho!"  "Hi!"  "Hee!"
respectively.  After giving vent to these humorous observations, they
fixed the fresh meat in the forks of a tree, and, bending forward,
followed up the trail like bloodhounds.

Thus it happened that at the very time when Moonlight was preparing her
practical joke, or surprise, for Rushing River, these four young braves
were looking on with inexpressible astonishment, and preparing something
which would indeed be a surprise, but certainly no joke, to herself and
to all who might chance to appear upon the scene.  With mouths open and
eyes stretched to the utmost, these Bounding Bullers--if we may so call
them--lay concealed behind a neighbouring mound, and watched the
watcher.

Their patience was not put to a severe test.  Ere long a distant sound
was heard.  As it drew near it became distinctly like the pattering
sound of galloping steeds.  The heart of Moonlight beat high, as she
drew closer into the shelter of the tree and clasped her hands.  So did
the hearts of the Bounding Bullers, as they drew closer under the brow
of the mound, and fitted arrows to their bows.

Moonlight was right in her estimate of the effect of disappointment on
her lover.  He was evidently letting off superfluous steam through the
safety-valve of a furious pace.  Presently the cavalcade came sweeping
into the pass, and went crashing through it--Rushing River, of course,
in advance.

No cannon ball was ever stopped more effectually by mountain or
precipice than was our Indian chief's career by Moonlight's kerchief and
knife.  He reined in with such force as to throw his steed on its
haunches, like the equestrian statue of Peter the Great; but, unlike the
statuesque animal, Rushing River's horse came back to the position of
all-fours, and stood transfixed and trembling.  Vaulting off, the chief
ran to the kerchief, and picked it up.  Then he and Eaglenose examined
it and the knife carefully, after which they turned to the track through
the bushes.  But here caution became necessary.  There might be an
ambuscade.  With tomahawk in one hand, and scalping-knife in the other,
the chief advanced slowly, step by step, gazing with quick intensity
right and left as he went.  Eaglenose followed, similarly armed, and
even more intensely watchful.  Umqua brought up the rear, unarmed, it is
true, but with her ten fingers curved and claw-like, as if in readiness
for the visage of any possible assailant, for the old woman was strong
and pugnacious as well as kindly and intellectual.

All this was what some people call "nuts" to Moonlight.  It was equally
so to the Bounding Bullers, who, although mightily taken by surprise,
were fully alive to the fact that here were two men and two women of
their hated Blackfoot foes completely at their mercy.  They had only to
twang their bowstrings and the death-yells of the men would instantly
resound in the forest.  But burning curiosity as to what it could all
mean, and an intense desire to see the play out, restrained them.

Soon Rushing River came upon the tied-up horse, and of course
astonishment became intensified, for in all his varied experience of
savage warfare he had never seen the evidence of a deadly skirmish
terminate in a peacefully tied-up horse.

While he and his companions were still bending cautiously forward and
peering around, the hoot of an owl was heard in the air.  Eaglenose
looked up with inquiring gaze, but his chief's more practised ear at
once understood it.  He stood erect, stuck his weapons into his belt,
and, with a look of great satisfaction, repeated the cry.

Moonlight responded, and at once ran down to him with a merry laugh.  Of
course there was a good deal of greeting and gratulation, for even
Indians become demonstrative at times, and Moonlight had much of
importance to tell.

But now an unforeseen difficulty came in the way of the bloody-minded
Bullers.  In the group which had been formed by the friendly evolutions
of their foes, the women chanced to have placed themselves exactly
between them and the men, thus rendering it difficult to shoot the
latter without great risk of injury, if not death, to the former, for
none of them felt sufficiently expert to emulate William Tell.

In these circumstances it occurred to them, being courageous braves,
that four men were more than a match for two, and that therefore it
would be safer and equally effective to make a united rush, and brain
their enemies as they stood.

No sooner conceived than acted on.  Dispensing with the usual yell on
this occasion, they drew their knives and tomahawks, and made a
tremendous rush.  But they had reckoned too confidently, and suffered
the inevitable disgrace of bafflement that awaits those who underrate
the powers of women.  So sudden was the onset that Rushing River had not
time to draw and properly use his weapons, but old Umqua, with the speed
of light, flung herself on hands and knees in front of the leading
Buller, who plunged over her, and drove his head against a tree with
such force that he remained there prone and motionless.  Thus the chief
was so far ready with his tomahawk that a hastily-delivered blow sent
the flat of it down on the skull of the succeeding savage, and, in
sporting language, dropped him.  Thus only two opponents were left, of
whom Eaglenose choked one and his chief felled the other.

In ordinary circumstances the victors would first have stabbed and then
scalped their foes, but we have pointed out that the spirit of our chief
had been changed.  He warned Eaglenose not to kill.  With his assistance
and that of the women, he bound the conquered braves, and laid them in
the middle of the track, so that no one could pass that way without
seeing them.  Then, addressing the one who seemed to be least stunned,
he said--

"Rushing River is no longer at war with Bounding Bull.  He will not slay
and scalp his young men; but the young men have been hasty, and must
suffer for it.  When your friends find you and set you free, tell them
that it was Rushing River who brought Skipping Rabbit to her father and
left her near the camp."

"If Rushing River is no longer at war with Bounding Bull," returned the
fallen savage sulkily, "how comes it that we have crossed the trail of a
war-party of Blackfeet on their way to the block-house of the
pale-face?"

This question roused both surprise and concern in the Blackfoot chief,
but his features betrayed no emotion of any kind, and the only reply he
condescended to make was a recommendation to the youth to remember what
he had been told.

When, however, he had left them and got out of hearing, he halted and
said--

"Moonlight has travelled in the region of her father's fort since she
was a little child.  Will she guide me to it by the shortest road she
knows!"

The girl of course readily agreed, and, in a few minutes, diverging from
the pass, went off in another direction where the ground permitted of
their advancing at a swift gallop.

We must turn now to another part of those western wilds, not far from
the little hut or fortress named.

In a secluded dell between two spurs of the great mountain range, a
council of war was held on the day of which we write by a party of
Blackfoot Indians.  This particular band had been absent on the war-path
for a considerable time, and, having suffered defeat, were returning
home rather crestfallen and without scalps.  In passing near the
fortress of Little Tim it occurred to them that they might yet retrieve
their character by assaulting that stronghold and carrying off the booty
that was there, with any scalps that chance might throw in their way.

That night the prairie chief, Little and Big Tim, Bounding Bull, and
Softswan were sitting in a very disconsolate frame of mind beside their
friend the pale-face preacher, whose sunken eye and hollow cheek told of
his rapidly approaching end.  Besides the prospect of the death of one
whom they had known and loved so long, they were almost overwhelmed by
despair at the loss of Moonlight and Skipping Rabbit, and their failure
to overtake and rescue them, while the difficulty of raising a
sufficient number of men at the time to render an attempt upon the
Blackfoot stronghold possible with the faintest hope of success still
further increased their despair.

Even the dying missionary was scarcely able to give them hope or
encouragement, for by that time his voice was so weak that he could only
utter a word or two at long intervals with difficulty.

"The clouds are very dark, my father," said Whitewing.

"Very dark," responded his friend, "but on the other side the sun is
shining brightly."

"Sometimes I find it rather hard to believe it," muttered Little Tim.

Bounding Bull did not speak, but the stern look of his brow showed that
he shared the feelings of the little hunter.  Big Tim was also silent
but he glanced at Softswan, and she, as if in reply to his thoughts,
said, "He doeth all things well."

"Ha!" exclaimed the missionary, with a quick glance of pleased surprise
at the girl; "you have learned a good lesson, soft one.  Treasure it.
`He doeth all things well.'  We may think some of them dark, some even
wrong, but--`Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?'"

Silence again ensued, for they were indeed very low, yet they had by no
means reached the lowest point of human misery.  While they were sitting
there the Blackfoot band, under cover of the night, was softly creeping
up the zigzag path.  Great events often turn on small points.  Rome was
saved by the cackling of geese, and Tim's Folly was lost by the
slumbering of a goose!  The goose in question was a youth, who was so
inflated with the miraculous nature of the deeds which he intended to do
that he did not give his mind sufficiently to those which at that time
had to be done.  He was placed as sentinel at the point of the little
rampart furthest from the hut and nearest the forest.  Instead of
standing at his post and gazing steadily at the latter, he sat down and
stared dreamily at the future.  As might have been expected, the first
Blackfoot that raised his head cautiously above the parapet saw the
dreamer, tapped his cranium, and rendered him unconscious.  Next moment
a swarm of black creatures leaped over the wall, burst open the door of
the hut and, before the men assembled there could grasp their weapons,
overpowered them by sheer weight of numbers.  All were immediately
bound, except the woman and the dying man.

Thus it happened that when Rushing River arrived he found the place
already in possession of his own men.

"I will go up alone," he said, "to see what they are doing.  If they
have got the fire-water of the pale-faces they might shoot and kill
Moonlight in their mad haste."

"If Rushing River wishes to see his men, unseen by them, Moonlight can
guide him by a secret way that is known only to her father and her
father's friends," said the girl.

The chief paused, as if uncertain for a moment how to act.  Then he said
briefly, "Let Moonlight lead; Rushing River will follow."

Without saying a word, the girl conducted her companion round by the
river's bed, and up by the secret path into the cavern at the rear of
the little fortress.  Here Eaglenose and Umqua were bidden to remain,
while the girl raised the stone which covered the upper opening of the
cave, and led the chief to the back of the hut whence issued the sound
of voices, as if raised in anger and mutual recrimination.

Placing his eye to a chink in the back door, the Blackfoot chief
witnessed a scene which filled him with concern and surprise.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

THE LAST.

The sight witnessed by Rushing River was one which might indeed have
stirred the spirit of a mere stranger, much more that of one who was
well acquainted with, and more or less interested in, all the actors in
the scene.

Seated on the floor in a row, with their backs against the wall of the
hut, and bound hand and foot were his old enemies Bounding Bull, Little
Tim and his big son, and Whitewing, the prairie chief.  In a corner lay
a man with closed eyes, clasped hands, and a face, the ashy paleness of
which indicated the near approach of death, if not its actual presence.
In him he at once recognised the preacher, who, years ago, had directed
his youthful mind to Jesus, the Saviour of mankind.

In front of these stood one of the warriors of his own nation,
brandishing a tomahawk, and apparently threatening instant destruction
to Little Tim, who, to do him justice, met the scowls and threats of the
savage with an unflinching gaze.  There was, however, no touch of pride
or defiance in Tim's look, but in the frowns of Bounding Bull and Big
Tim we feel constrained to say that there were both pride and defiance.
Several Blackfoot Indians stood beside the prisoners with knives in
their hands, ready at a moment's notice to execute their leader's
commands.  Rushing River knew that leader to be one of the fiercest and
most cruel of his tribe.  Softswan was seated at the feet of the
missionary, with her face bowed upon her knees.  She was not bound, but
a savage stood near to watch her.  Whitewing's old mother sat or rather
crouched, close to her.

What had already passed Rushing River of course could only guess.  Of
what followed his ears and eyes took note.

"You look very brave just now," said the Blackfoot leader, "but I will
make you change your looks before I take your scalps to dry in the
Blackfoot wigwams."

"You had better take our lives at once," said Big Tim fiercely, "else we
will begin to think that we have had the mischance to fall into the
hands of cowardly squaws."

"Wah!" exclaimed Bounding Bull, with a nod of assent as he directed a
look of scorn at his adversary.

"Tush, tush, boy," said Little Tim to his son reprovingly, in an
undertone.  "It ill becomes a man with white blood in his veins, an' who
calls hisself a Christian, to go boastin' like an or'nary savage.  I
thowt I had thrashed that out of 'ee when ye was a small boy."

"Daddy," remonstrated Big Tim, "is not Softswan sittin' there at his
marcy?"

"No, lad, no.  We are at the marcy of the Lord, an' His marcies are
everlastin'."

A faint smile flickered on the lips of the missionary at that moment,
and, opening his eyes, he said solemnly--

"My son, hope thou in God, for thou shalt yet praise Him who is the
health of thy countenance and thy God."

The savage leader was for the moment startled by the words, uttered in
his own language, by one whom he had thought to be dead, but recovering
himself quickly, he said--

"Your trust will be vain, for you are now in my power, and I only spare
you long enough to tell you that a Blackfoot brave has just met us, who
brings us the good news of what our great Blackfoot chief did when he
crept into the camp of Bounding Bull and carried away his little
daughter from under his very nose, and also the daughter of Leetil Tim.
Wah!  Did I not say that I would make you change your looks?"

The savage was so far right that this reference to their great loss was
a terrible stab, and produced considerable change of expression on the
faces of the captives; but with a great effort Bounding Bull resumed his
look of contempt and said that what was news to the Blackfoot leader was
no news to him, and that not many days would pass before his warriors
would pay a visit to the Blackfoot nation.

"That may be so," retorted the savage, "but they shall not be led by
Bounding Bull, for his last hour has come."

So saying, the Blackfoot raised his tomahawk, and advanced to the chief,
who drew himself up, and returned his glare of hate with a smile of
contempt.  Softswan sprang up with a shriek, and would have flung
herself between them, but was held back by the savage who guarded her.
At that moment the back door of the hut flew open, and Rushing River
stood in the midst of them.

One word from him sent all the savages crestfallen out of the hut.  He
followed them.  Returning alone a few seconds later, he passed the
astonished captives, and, kneeling down by the couch of the missionary,
said, in tones that were too low to be heard by the others--

"Does my white father remember Rushing River?"

The missionary opened his eyes with a puzzled look of inquiry, and gazed
at the Indian's face.

"Rushing River was but a boy," continued the chief, "when the pale-face
preacher came to the camp of the Blackfeet."

A gleam of intelligence seemed to shoot from the eyes of the dying man.

"Yes, yes," he said faintly; "I remember."

"My father," continued the chief, "spoke to Rushing River about his
sins--about the Great Manitou; about Jesus, the Saviour of all men, and
about the Great Spirit.  Rushing River did not believe then--he could
not--but the Great Spirit must have been whispering to him since, for he
believes _now_."

A look of quiet joy settled on the preacher's face while the chief
spoke.

Rousing himself with an effort, he said, as he turned a glance towards
the captives--

"If you truly love Jesus, let these go free."

The chief had to bend down to catch the feebly-spoken words.  Rising
instantly, he drew his knife, went to Little Tim, and cut the thongs
that bound him.  Then he cut those of Big Tim and Whitewing, and lastly
those of Bounding Bull.

He had scarcely completed the latter act when his old enemy suddenly
snatched the knife out of his hand, caught him by the right arm with a
vice-like grasp, and pointed the weapon at his heart.

"Bounding Bull," he said fiercely, "knows not the meaning of all this,
but he knows that his child is in the Blackfoot camp, and that Rushing
River is at his mercy."

No effort did Rushing River make to avert the impending blow, but stood
perfectly still, and, with a look of simple gravity, said--

"Skipping Rabbit is not in the Blackfoot camp.  She is now in the camp
of her kindred; and Moonlight," he added, turning a glance on Little
Tim, "is safe."

"Your face looks truthful and your tone sounds honest, Rushing River,"
said Little Tim, "but the Blackfeet are clever at deceiving, and the
chief is our bitter foe.  What surety have we that he is not telling
lies?  Rushing River knows well he has only to give a signal and his red
reptiles will swarm in on us, all unarmed as we are, and take our
scalps."

"My young men are beyond hearing," returned the chief.  "I have sent
them away.  My breast is open to the knife in the hand of Bounding Bull.
I am no longer an enemy, but a follower of Jesus, and the preacher has
told us that He is the Prince of peace."

At this the prairie chief stepped forward.

"Friends," he said, "my heart is glad this day, for I am sure that you
may trust the word of Rushing River.  Something of his change of mind I
have heard of in the course of my wanderings, but I had not been sure
that there was truth in the report till now."

Still Bounding Bull maintained his grasp on his old foe, and held the
knife in readiness, so that if there should be any sudden attempt at
rescue, he, at least, should not escape.

The two Tims, Little and Big, although moved by Whitewing's remarks,
were clearly not quite convinced.  They seemed uncertain how to view the
matter, and were still hesitating when Rushing River again spoke.

"The pale-faces," he said, "do not seem to be so trustful as the red
men.  I have put myself in your power, yet you do not believe me.  Why,
then, does not Bounding Bull strike his ancient enemy?  His great
opportunity has come.  His squaws are waiting in his wigwam fur the
scalp of Rushing River."

For the first time in his life Bounding Bull was rendered incapable of
action.  In all his extensive experience of Indian warfare he had never
been placed in such a predicament.  If he had been an out-and-out
heathen, he would have known what to do, and would have done it at
once--he would have gratified revenge.  Had Rushing River been an
out-and-out heathen, he never would have given him the chance he now
possessed of wreaking his vengeance.  Then the thought of Skipping
Rabbit filled his heart with tender anxiety, and confused his judgment
still more.  It was very perplexing!  But Rushing River brought the
perplexity to an end by saying--

"If you wish for further proof that Rushing River tells no lies,
Moonlight will give it.  Let her come forward."

Little Tim was beginning to think that the Blackfoot chief was, as he
expressed it, somewhat "off his head," when Moonlight ran into the room,
and seized him with her wonted energy round the neck.

"Yes, father, it's all true.  I am safe, as you see, and happy."

"An' Skippin' Rabbit?" said Little Tim.

"Is in her own wigwam by this time."

As she spoke in the Indian tongue, Bounding Bull understood her.  He at
once let go his hold of his old foe.  Returning the knife to him, he
grasped his right hand after the manner of the pale-faces, and said--

"My brother."

By this time Eaglenose and Umqua had appeared upon the scene, and added
their testimony to that of their chief.  While they were still engaged
in explanation, a low wail from Softswan turned their attention to the
corner where the preacher lay.

The prairie chief glided to the side of his old friend, and kneeled by
the couch.  The others clustered round in solemn silence.  They guessed
too surely what had drawn forth the girl's wail.  The old man lay, with
his thin white locks scattered on the pillow, his hands clasped as if in
prayer, and with eyes nearly closed, but the lips moved not.  His days
of prayer and striving on this earth were over, and his eternity of
praise and glory had begun.

We might here, appropriately enough, close our record of the prairie
chief and the preacher, but we feel loath to leave them without a few
parting words, for the good work which the preacher had begun was
carried on, not only by Whitewing, but, as far as example went--and that
was a long way--by Little and Big Tim and their respective wives, and
Bounding Bull, as well as by many of their kindred.

After the preacher's remains had been laid in the grave at the foot of a
pine-tree in that far western wilderness, Little Tim, with his son and
Indian friends, followed Bounding Bull to his camp, where one of the
very first persons they saw was Skipping Rabbit engaged in violently
agitating the limbs of her jumping-jack, to the ineffable delight of
Eaglenose.

Soon after, diplomatic negotiations were entered into between the tribe
of Bounding Bull and the Blackfeet, resulting in a treaty of peace which
bid fair to be a lasting treaty, at least as lasting as most other human
treaties ever are.  The pipe of peace was solemnly smoked, the
war-hatchet was not less solemnly buried, and a feast on a gigantic
scale, was much more solemnly held.

Another result was that Rushing River and Moonlight were married--not
after the simple Indian fashion, but with the assistance of a real
pale-faced missionary, who was brought from a distance of nearly three
hundred miles, from a pale-face pioneer settlement, for the express
purpose of tying that knot along with several other knots of the same
kind, and doing what in him lay to establish and strengthen the good
work which the old preacher had begun.

Years passed away, and a fur-trading establishment was sent into those
western regions, which gradually attracted round it a group of Indians,
who not only bartered skins with the traders, but kept them constantly
supplied with meat.  Among the most active hunters of this group were
our friends Little and Big Tim, Bounding Bull, Rushing River, and
Eaglenose.  Sometimes these hunted singly, sometimes in couples, not
unfrequently all together, for they were a very sociable band.

Whitewing was not one of them, for he devoted himself exclusively to
wandering about the mountains and prairies, telling men and women and
children of the Saviour of sinners, of righteousness and judgment to
come--a self-appointed Red Indian missionary, deriving his authority
from the Word of God.

But the prairie chief did not forsake his old and well-tried friends.
He left a hostage in the little community, a sort of living lodestone,
which was sure to bring him back again and again, however far his
wanderings might extend.  This was a wrinkled specimen of female
humanity, which seemed to be absolutely incapable of extinction because
of the superhuman warmth of its heart and the intrinsic hilarity of its
feelings!  Whoever chanced to inquire for Whitewing, whether in summer
or in winter, in autumn or in spring, was sure to receive some such
answer as the following: "Nobody knows where he is.  He wanders here and
there and everywhere; but he'll not be absent long, for he always turns
up, sooner or later, to see his old mother."

Yes, that mummified old mother, that "dear old one," was a sort of
planet round which Brighteyes and Softswan and Moonlight and Skipping
Rabbit and others, with a host of little Brighteyes and little
Softswans, revolved, forming a grand constellation, which the men of the
settlement gazed at and followed as the mariners of old followed the
Pole star.

The mention of Skipping Rabbit reminds us that we have something more to
say about her.

It so happened that the fur trader who had been sent to establish a post
in that region was a good man, and, strange to say, entertained a strong
belief that the soul of man was of far greater importance than his body.
On the strength of this opinion he gathered the Indians of the
neighbourhood around him, and told them that, as he wished to read to
them out of the Word of the Great Manitou, he would hold a class twice a
week in the fur-store; and, further, that if any of them wished to learn
English, and read the Bible of the pale-faces for themselves, he was
quite willing to teach them.

Well, the very first pupil that came to the English class was Skipping
Rabbit, and, curiously enough, the very second was Eaglenose.

Now it must be remembered that we have said that years had passed away.
Skipping Rabbit was no longer a spoiled, little laughing child, but a
tall, graceful, modest girl, just bursting into womanhood.  She was
still as fond as ever of the jumping-jack, but she slily worked its
galvanic limbs for the benefit of little children, not for her own--O
dear no!  Eaglenose had also grown during these years into a stalwart
man, and his chin and lower jaws having developed considerably, his nose
was relatively much reduced in appearance.  About the same time
Brighteyes and Softswan, naturally desiring to become more interesting
to their husbands, also joined this class, and they were speedily
followed by Moonlight and Bounding Bull.  Rushing River also looked in,
now and then, in a patronising sort of way, but Whitewing resolutely
refused to be troubled with anything when in camp save his mother and
his mother-tongue.

It will not therefore surprise the reader to be told that Eaglenose and
the skipping one, being thus engaged in a common pursuit, were
naturally, we may even say unavoidably, thrown a good deal together; and
as their philological acquirements extended, they were wont at times to
air their English on each other.  The lone woods formed a convenient
scene for their intercourse.

"Kom vis me," said Eaglenose to Skipping Rabbit one day after school.

"Var you goes?" asked the girl shyly--yet we might almost say
twinklingly.

"Don' know.  Nowhars.  Everywhars.  Anywhars."

"Kim 'long, den."

"Skipping one," said Eaglenose--of course in his own tongue, though he
continued the sentence in English--"de lunguish of de pale-fass am
diffikilt."

"Yes--'most too diffikilt for larn."

"Bot Softswan larn him easy."

"Bot Softswan have one pale-fass hubsind," replied the girl, breaking
into one of her old merry laughs at the trouble they both experienced in
communicating through such a "lunguish."

"Would the skipping one," said Eaglenose, with a sharp look, "like to
have a hubsind?"

The skipping one looked at her companion with a startled air, blushed,
cast down her eyes, and said nothing.

"Come, sit down here," said the Indian, suddenly reverting to his native
tongue, as he pointed to the trunk of a fallen tree.

The girl suffered herself to be led to the tree, and sat down beside the
youth, who retained one of her hands.

"Does not the skipping one know," he said earnestly, "that for many
moons she has been as the sun in the sky to Eaglenose?  When she was a
little one, and played with the jumping-jack, her eyes seemed to
Eaglenose like the stars, and her voice sounded like the rippling water
after it has reached the flowering prairie.  When the skipping one
laughed, did not the heart of Eaglenose jump? and when she let drops
fall from her stars, was not his heart heavy?  Afterwards, when she
began to think and talk of the Great Manitou, did not the Indian's ears
tingle and his heart burn?  It is true," continued the youth, with a
touch of pathos in his tone which went straight to the girl's heart, "it
is true that Eaglenose dwells far below the skipping one.  He creeps
like the beetle on the ground.  She flies like the wild swan among the
clouds.  Eaglenose is not worthy of her; but love is a strong horse that
scorns to stop at difficulties.  Skipping Rabbit and Eaglenose have the
same thoughts, the same God, the same hopes and desires.  They have one
heart--why should they not have one wigwam?"

Reader, we do not ask you to accept the above declaration as a specimen
of Indian love-making.  You are probably aware that the red men have a
very different and much more prosaic manner of doing things than this.
But we have already said that Eaglenose was an eccentric youth;
moreover, he was a Christian, and we do not feel bound to account for
the conduct or sentiments of people who act under the combined influence
of Christianity and eccentricity.

When Skipping Rabbit heard the above declaration, she did indeed blush a
little.  She could not help that, we suppose, but she did not look
awkward, or wait for the gentleman to say more, but quietly putting her
arm round his neck, she raised her little head and kissed that part of
his manly face which lay immediately underneath his eagle nose!

Of course he was not shabby enough to retain the kiss.  He understood it
to be a loan, and returned it immediately with interest--but--surely we
have said enough for an intelligent reader!

Not many days after that these two were married in the fur-store of the
traders.  A grand feast and a great dance followed, as a matter of
course.  It is noteworthy that there was no drink stronger than tea at
that merry-making, yet the revellers were wonderfully uproarious and
very happy, and it was universally admitted that, exclusive of course of
the bride and bridegroom, the happiest couple there were a wrinkled old
woman of fabulous age and her amiable son--the Prairie Chief.

THE END.






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