iful
spring, and at night as I awake to hear the soft babble of running
water, I freeze until my heart feels like cold lead. Winds, I'm not
a coward; but I can't help this feeling. Perhaps, it's only the
memory of that awful night with Wetzel."

"An Indian feels so when he passes to his unmarked grave," answered
Winds, gazing solemnly at him. "Whispering Winds does not like this
fancy of yours. Let us leave Beautiful Spring. You are almost well.
Ah! if Whispering Winds should lose you! I love you!"

"And I love you, my beautiful wild flower," answered Joe, stroking
the dark head so near his own.

A tender smile shone on his face. He heard a slight noise without
the cave, and, looking up, saw that which caused the smile to fade
quickly.

"Mose!" he called, sharply. The dog was away chasing rabbits.

Whispering Winds glanced over her shoulder with a startled cry,
which ended in a scream.

Not two yards behind her stood Jim Girty.

Hideous was his face in its triumphant ferocity. He held a long
knife in his hand, and, snarling like a mad wolf, he made a forward
lunge.

Joe raised himself quickly; but almost before he could lift his hand
in defense, the long blade was sheathed in his breast.

Slowly he sank back, his gray eyes contracting with the old steely
flash. The will to do was there, but the power was gone forever.

"Remember, Girty, murderer! I am Wetzel's friend," he cried, gazing
at his slayer with unutterable scorn.

Then the gray eyes softened, and sought the blanched face of the
stricken maiden.

"Winds," he whispered faintly.

She was as one frozen with horror.

The gray eyes gazed into hers with lingering tenderness; then the
film of death came upon them.

The renegade raised his bloody knife, and bent over the prostrate
form.

Whispering Winds threw herself upon Girty with the blind fury of a
maddened lioness. Cursing fiercely, he stabbed her once, twice,
three times. She fell across the body of her lover, and clasped it
convulsively.

Girty gave one glance at his victims; deliberately wiped the gory
knife on Wind's leggins, and, with another glance, hurried and
fearful, around the glade, he plunged into the thicket.

An hour passed. A dark stream crept from the quiet figures toward
the spring. It dyed the moss and the green violet leaves. Slowly it
wound its way to the clear water, dripping between the pale blue
flowers. The little fall below the spring was no longer snowy white;