f our party sprang forward, but it fell to
Salamander to effect the rescue, for that light-hearted and light-limbed
individual chanced to be nearest to the savage when I fired at him, and,
ere the knife was well drawn, had leaped upon his back with the agility
of a panther. At the same moment Big Otter flung his tomahawk at him.
The weapon was well, though hastily, aimed. It struck the savage full
on the forehead, and felled him to the earth.

The rest of Attick's party made no attempt to rescue him. Like all bad
men, they were false to each other in the hour of need. They quietly
submitted to be disarmed and led away.

We had to encamp early that evening, because the unwonted and severe
exercise to which Waboose's mother had been exposed had rendered her
quite unfit to travel further without rest. Attick, who had soon
recovered sufficiently to be able to walk, was bound, along with his
men, and put under a guard. Then the encampment was made and the fires
kindled. While this was being done I led Waboose aside to a little
knoll, from which we could see a beautiful country of mingled woodland
and prairie, stretching far away to the westward, where the sun had just
descended amid clouds of amber and crimson.

"Is it not glorious!" I exclaimed. "Should we not be grateful to the
Great Spirit who has given us such a splendid home?"

Waboose looked at me. "Yes, it is glorious," she said--"and I am
grateful; but it is strange that you should use the very same words that
were so often on the lips of my father just before he--"

She stopped abruptly.

"Just before he went home, Eve," I interposed; "no need to say died.
Your father is not dead, but sleepeth. You shall meet him again. But
it is not very strange that men should use the same words when they are
animated by the same love to the Great Spirit."

The girl raised her large eyes with a perplexed, inquiring look.

"What troubles you, Eve?" I asked.

"Eve!" she repeated, almost anxiously. "Twice you have called me by a
name that father sometimes used, though not often, and when he used it
he always spoke low and _very_ tenderly."

I felt somewhat perplexed as to how I should reply, and finally took
refuge in another question.

"Tell me, Waboose," said I, "did your father ever tell you his own
name?"

"Of course he did," she answered, with a look of surprise--"you know
well it was Weeum."

"Yes, William," said I; "but--"

"No--Weeum," she said