f the
loyalty of the young Shawanoe. More than one declared on general
principles that Relstaub would have been served right had the warrior
handled him roughly, as it was well known he could have done had he been
so minded.

Deerfoot walked quietly along the primitive street until opposite the
door of Widow Carleton's cabin. Without hesitation, he pulled the latch
string and stepped within. There was no start or change of expression
when he glanced about the apartment, but that single glance told him the
story.

Mrs. Carleton was standing at the table on the other side of the room,
occupied with the dishes that had served at the morning meal. Her back
was toward the visitor, but she turned like a flash when she heard the
door open. The scared, expectant, disappointed, and apprehensive
expression that flitted over her countenance, like the passing of a
cloud across a summer landscape, made known the truth to the sagacious
Shawanoe.

"Deerfoot's brother has not come back from his long hunt," he said, in
his usual voice, as he bowed and advanced to the middle of the
apartment.

"O Deerfoot!" moaned the mother, as, with tremulous lip, she sank into
the nearest chair and looked pleadingly toward him, holding her apron
ready to raise to her eyes; "tell me where is my Jack!"

"My friend told Deerfoot that his brother had gone to hunt the horse
that has wandered off."

"But that was more than a week ago; he ought to have come back a good
while since. O Deerfoot----"

"But the horse has wandered many miles, and it will take my brother a
long time to find him," interrupted the visitor, who dreaded the scene
which he saw was sure to come.

"Do you think they are still hunting for him?" she asked with a sudden,
yearning eagerness that went to the heart of the Indian. He could not
speak an untruth, nor could he admit the great fear that almost stopped
the beating of his heart.

"Deerfoot cannot answer his friend; but he hopes soon to take the hand
of his brother."

"Oh, that will never be--it can never be. My poor Jack!"

Her grief could be restrained no longer. The apron was abruptly raised
to the eyes, and as the white hands were pressed against the face her
whole frame shook with emotion. Deerfoot looked steadily at the pitiful
scene, but he knew not what to say or do. It was a vivid illustration of
this strange nature of ours that the youth, who absolutely knew not what
fear was, and who had seen the glittering