need of water.

Much refreshed, he pulled out the Bible again, and looked earnestly at
it.

"Strange," he said, in the Indian tongue, turning his eyes on his
surgeon-nurse; "often have I heard of men saved from death by bullets
being stopped by Bibles, but in my case it would seem as if God had made
it a key to unlock the gates of the better land."

"Does my white father think he is going to die?" asked the girl in her
own tongue, with a look of anxiety.

"It may be so," replied the man gently, "for I feel very, _very_ weak.
But feelings are deceptive; one cannot trust them. It matters little,
however. If I live, it is to work for Jesus. If I die, it is to be
with Jesus. But tell me, little one, who art thou whom the Lord has
sent to succour me?"

"Me is Softswan, daughter of the great chief Bounding Bull," replied the
girl, with a look of pride when she mentioned her father, which drew a
slight smile from the stranger.

"But Softswan has white blood in her veins," he said; "and why does she
sometimes speak in the language of the pale-face?"

"My mother," returned the girl in a low, sad tone, "was pale-face womans
from the Saskatchewan. Me speaks English, for my husban' likes it."

"Your husband--what is his name!"

"Big Tim."

"What!" exclaimed the wounded man with sudden energy, as a flush
overspread his pale face; "is he the son of Little Tim, the
brother-in-law of Whitewing the prairie chief?"

"He is the son of Leetil Tim, an' this be hims house."

"Then," exclaimed the stranger, with a pleased look, "I have reached, if
not the end of my journey, at least a most important point in it, for I
had appointed to meet Whitewing at this very spot, and did not know,
when the Blackfoot Indian shot me, that I was so near the hut. It
looked like a mere accident my finding the track which leads to it near
the spot where I fell, but it is the Lord's doing. Tell me, Softswan,
have you never heard Whitewing and Little Tim speak of the pale-face
missionary--the Preacher, they used to call me?"

"Yes, yes, oftin," answered the girl eagerly. "Me tinks it bees you.
Me _very_ glad, an' Leetil Tim he--"

Her speech was cut short at this point by a repetition of the appalling
war-whoop which had already disturbed the echoes of the gorge more than
once that day.

Naturally the attention of Softswan had been somewhat distracted by the
foregoing conversation, and she had allowed the Indians to burst from
the thi