in' 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