edient 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 suggestio