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