went wounded and howling back into the forest.

"Well done, my soft one!" exclaimed Big Tim, as he took a flying leap
over the low breastwork, and caught his bride in his arms, for even in
that moment of danger he could not help expressing his joy and
thankfulness at finding her safe and well, when he had half expected to
find her dead and scalped, if he found her at all.

Another moment, and he was kneeling at the breastwork, examining the
firearms and ready for action.

"Fetch the sabre, my soft one," said Big Tim, addressing his bride by
the title which he had bestowed on her on his wedding-day.

The tone in which he said this struck the girl as being unusually light
and joyous, not quite in keeping with the circumstance of being attacked
by overwhelming odds; but she was becoming accustomed to the
eccentricities of her bold and stalwart husband, and had perfect
confidence in him. Without, therefore, expressing surprise by word or
look, she obeyed the order.

Unsheathing the weapon, the hunter felt its edge with his thumb, and a
slight smile played on his features as he said--

"I have good news for the soft one to-day."

The soft one looked, but did not say, "Indeed, what is it?"

"Yes," continued the youth, sheathing the sabre; "the man with the kind
heart and the snowy pinion has come back to the mountains. He will be
here before the shadows of the trees grow much longer."

"Whitewing?" exclaimed Softswan, with a gleam of pleasure in her bright
black eyes.

"Just so. The prairie chief has come back to us, and is now a
preacher."

"Has the pale-face preacher com' vis him?" asked the bride, with a
slightly troubled look, for she did not yet feel quite at home in her
broken English, and feared that her husband might laugh at her mistakes,
though nothing was further from the mind of the stout hunter than to
laugh at his pretty bride. He did indeed sometimes indulge the
propensity in that strange conventional region "his sleeve," but no owl
of the desert was more solemn in countenance than Big Tim when Softswan
perpetrated her lingual blunders.

"I know not," he replied, as he renewed the priming of one of the guns.
"Hist! did you see something move under the willow bush yonder?"

The girl shook her head.

"A rabbit, no doubt," said the hunter, lowering the rifle which he had
raised, and resuming his easy unconcerned attitude, yet keeping his keen
eye on the spot with a steadiness that showed his