y
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 p