im, for there was a fire in those dark eyes which told of deep,
wild passions hidden in his breast, and she knew that the lives of a
whole tribe of Indians would be light in the balance against that of his
favorite hound.

Having securely fastened up Nero, Susan, with a heavy heart, proceeded
to examine the ground around the hut. In several places she observed the
impression of a small moccasined foot; but not a child's. The tracks
were deeply marked, unlike the usual light, elastic tread of an Indian.
From this circumstance Susan easily inferred that the woman had been
carrying her child when attacked by the dog. There was nothing to show
why she had come so near the hut: most probably the hopes of some petty
plunder had been the inducement. Susan did not dare to wander far from
home, fearing a band of Indians might be in the neighborhood. She
returned sorrowfully to the hut, and employed herself in blocking up
the window, or rather the hole where the window had been, for the
powerful hound had, in his leap, dashed out the entire frame, and
shattered it to pieces. When this was finished, Susan dug a grave, and
in it laid the little Indian boy. She made it close to the hut, for she
could not bear that wolves should devour those delicate limbs, and she
knew that there it would be safe. The next day Tom returned. He had been
very unsuccessful, and intended setting out again, in a few days, in a
different direction.

"Susan," he said, when he had heard her sad story, "I wish you'd left
the child where the dog killed him. The squaw's high sartain to come
back a seekin' for the body, and 'tis a pity the poor crittur should be
disappointed. Besides, the Indians will be high sartain to put it down
to us; whereas, if so be as they'd found the body 'pon the spot, may be
they'd onderstand as 'twas an accident like, for they 're unkimmon
cunning warmint, though they an't got sense like Christians."

"Why do you think the poor woman came here?" said Susan. "I never knew
an Indian squaw so near the hut before?"

She fancied a dark shadow flitted across her husband's brow. He made no
reply; and, on repeating the question, said angrily, "How should I
know? 'Tis as well to ask for a bear's reasons as an Injin's."

Tom only staid at home long enough to mend the broken window, and plant
a small spot of Indian corn, and then again set out, telling Susan not
to expect him home in less than a month. "If that squaw comes this way
agin,"