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 t