roused the camp, came with others. We heard their steps approaching
the door, and knew that death came with them. We escaped at the back
of the lodge, but they saw us and their arrows flew. She fell, and I
caught her in my arms and fled into the wood. When we were safe I
looked at her I carried, and she was dead. An arrow had pierced her
heart. I buried her that night beneath a heap of stones, and fled to
the Cayuses. That is my story."

"What will you do now?" asked Cecil, deeply touched.

"I shall live a man's life. I shall hunt and go on the war-trail, and
say strong words in the council. And when my life is ended, when the
sunset and the night come to me and I go forth into the darkness, I
know I shall find her I love waiting for me beside the death-trail
that leads to the spirit-land."

The tears came into Cecil's eyes.

"I too have known sorrow," he said, "and like you I am a wanderer from
my own people. We are going together into an unknown land, knowing not
what may befall us. Let us be friends."

And he held out his hand. The Indian took it,--awkwardly, as an Indian
always takes the hand of a white man, but warmly, heartily.

"We are brothers," he said simply. And as Cecil rode on with the wild
troop into the unknown world before him, he felt that there was one
beside him who would be faithful, no matter what befell.

The long day wore on; the sun rose to the zenith and sunk, and still
the Indians pushed forward. It was a long, forced march, and Cecil was
terribly fatigued when at last one of the Indians told him that they
were near a big river where they would camp for the night.

"One sun more," said the Indian, pointing to the sun now sinking in
the west, "and you will see the Bridge of the Gods."

The news re-animated Cecil, and he hurried on. A shout rose from the
Indians in advance. He saw the head of the long train of horses and
riders pause and look downward and the Indians at the rear gallop
forward. Cecil and his friend followed and joined them.

"The river! the river!" cried the Indians, as they rode up. The scene
below was one of gloomy but magnificent beauty. Beneath them opened an
immense canyon, stupendous even in that land of canyons,--the great
canyon of the Columbia. The walls were brown, destitute of verdure,
sinking downward from their feet in yawning precipices or steep
slopes. At the bottom, more than a thousand feet below, wound a wide
blue river, the gathered waters of half a