and around the soldiers in a way to provoke a mirth
that no dismal strain could dispel. So the gates were flung open, and
in orderly procession, each man in his place, each heart set upon its
duty, the little garrison marched through them for the last time.

Of what took place within the next dread hours, of the Indians'
treachery and the white men's courage, there is no need to give the
details. It is history. But of brave Gaspar Keith on the wild gelding,
Tempest, history makes no mention. There is many a hero whose name
is unknown, and the lad was a hero that day. He did what he could,
and his empty quiver, his broken bow, told their own story to a
Pottawatomie warrior who came upon the boy just as the sun crossed
the meridian on that memorable day.

Gaspar was lying unconscious beneath a clump of forest trees, and
Tempest grazing quietly beside him. There was no wound upon the lad,
and whether he had been thrown to the ground by the animal, or had
slipped from his saddle out of sheer weariness, even he could never
tell.

The Indian who found him was none other than the Man-Who-Kills; and,
from a perfectly safe distance for himself, he had watched the young
pale-face with admiration and covetousness.

"By and by, when the fight is over, I will get him. He shall be my
prisoner. The black gelding is finer than any horse ever galloped into
Muck-otey-pokee. They shall both be mine. I will tell a big tale at
the council fires of my brothers, and they shall account me brave.
Talking is easier than fighting, any time, and why should I peril my
life, following this mad war-path of theirs to that far-away Fort
Wayne? Enough is a plenty. I have hidden lots of plunder while the men
of my tribe did their killing, and the Man-Who-Kills will always be
wise, as he is always brave. I could shoot as fast and as far as
anybody if--if I wished. But I do not wish. It is too much trouble. So
I will tie the boy on the gelding's back and lead them home in
triumph. Will my squaw, Sorah, flout me now? No. No, indeed! And there
is no need to say that I dared not mount the beast myself. But I can
lead him all right, and when the Woman-Who-Mourns, that haughty sister
of my chief, sees me coming she will say: 'Behold! how merciful is
this mighty warrior!'"

These reflections of the astute Indian, as he rested upon the shaded
sward, afforded him such satisfaction that he did, indeed, handle poor
Gaspar with more gentleness than might have b