to carry him away, completed his attire. It
was also the memento of one of his most superhuman feats of courage.
He would undoubtedly have scalped the eagle but that nature had
anticipated him.

"Why is the Great Chief sad?" asked Mushymush, softly. "Does his soul
still yearn for the blood of the pale-faced teachers? Did not the
scalping of two professors of geology in the Yale exploring party
satisfy his warrior's heart yesterday? Has he forgotten that Hayden
and Clarence King are still to follow? Shall his own Mushymush bring
him a botanist to-morrow? Speak, for the silence of my brother lies on
my heart like the snow on the mountain, and checks the flow of my
speech."

Still the proud Boy Chief sat silent. Suddenly he said: "Hist!" and
rose to his feet. Taking a long rifle from the ground he adjusted its
sight. Exactly seven miles away on the slope of the mountain the
figure of a man was seen walking. The Boy Chief raised the rifle to
his unerring eye and fired. The man fell.

A scout was dispatched to scalp and search the body. He presently
returned.

"Who was the pale face?" eagerly asked the chief.

"A life insurance agent."

A dark scowl settled on the face of the chief.

"I thought it was a book-peddler."

"Why is my brother's heart sore against the book-peddler?" asked
Mushymush.

"Because," said the Boy Chief, fiercely, "I am again without my regular
dime novel, and I thought he might have one in his pack. Hear me,
Mushymush; the United States mails no longer bring me my 'Young
America,' or my 'Boys' and Girls' Weekly.' I find it impossible, even
with my fastest scouts, to keep up with the rear of General Howard, and
replenish my literature from the sutler's wagon. Without a dime novel
or a 'Young America,' how am I to keep up this Injin business?"

Mushymush remained in meditation a single moment. Then she looked up
proudly.

"My brother has spoken. It is well. He shall have his dime novel. He
shall know what kind of a hair-pin his sister Mushymush is."

And she arose and gamboled lightly as the fawn out of his presence.

In two hours she returned. In one hand she held three small flaxen
scalps, in the other "The Boy Marauder," complete in one volume, price
ten cents.

"Three pale-faced children," she gasped, "were reading it in the tail
end of an emigrant wagon. I crept up to them softly. Their parents
are still unaware of the accident," and she sank helpless at his fe