It was New Year’s Eve, 184-.  I and my two little boys, children of five and seven, were alone in the house.My husband had been unexpectedly called away on business, and the servant had gone to her friends to spend the coming holiday.

It was drawing toward night.  The cold shadows of the winter twilight were already falling.A dull red glow in the west told where the sun was going down.Over the rest of the sky hung heavy gray clouds.A few drops of rain fell from time to time, and the wind was rising, coming round the corner of the house with a long, mournful howl like that of a lost hound.

I am not a very nervous person, but I did not like the idea of spending by myself the long evening that would come after the children’s bed-time.

We were living then in a very new place in Michigan, which I shall call Maysville.  My husband, an ex-army officer, had resigned the sword for the saw-mill.Our house was the oldest in the village, which does not speak much for its antiquity, as five years before Maysville had been unbroken forest.  The house stood outside the cluster of houses that formed the little settlement:it was a quarter of a mile to our nearest neighbor.

Now, Maysville calls itself a city, has an academy and a college, and a great quantity of church in proportion to its population.Then, we “went to meeting” in a little white-painted, pine box of a thing, like a barn that had risen in life.The stumps stood about the street:  the cows wandered at will and pastured in the “public square,” an irregular clearing running out into indefinite space.Here also the Indians would encamp when they came to town from their reservation about five miles away, and here also, I regret to say, they would sometimes get drunk, and add what Martha Penney calls “a revolving animosity to the scenery.”The squaws, however, would generally secure the knives and guns before the quarrelsome stage was reached.Not unfrequently the ladies would bring the weapons to Mrs. Moore or myself to hide away till their lords and masters should be sober.Then, feeling secure that no great harm could happen, they would look on with the utmost placidity at the antics of their better halves until they dropped down to sleep off their liquor.

There were no Indians in town that night, however, and if there had been, I was not at all afraid of them, for we were on excellent terms with the whole reservation.My feeling about staying alone was merely one of those unreasonable sensations that sometimes overtake people of ill-regulated minds.

I went to the door and looked out at the gray, angry sky.It was not cold, but chill.The wind howled and shivered among the leafless branches:everything promised a storm.

I was not at all sorry to see Mr. and Mrs. Moore drive up in their light buggy, with their two high-stepping, little brown horses.  Mrs. Moore had in her arms a bundle in a long blue embroidered cloak a baby, in short.  She and her husband firmly believed this infant to be the most beautiful, most intelligent and altogether most charming creature which the world had ever seen.  They had been married three years, and little Carry was their first child.

Mr. and Mrs. Moore were by no means ordinary people.Mrs. Moore born Minny or Hermione Adams was a very small woman, exceedingly pretty, with light brown curly hair, dark blue eyes and a complexion like an apple blossom.

Mr. Moore was the son of a Seneca mother and Cherokee father, with not a drop of white blood in his veins.So he thought, at least, but I never could quite believe it, because he could and did work, and never so much as touched even a glass of wine.His parents had died when he was very young, and he had been brought up and educated by a missionary, a gentle, scholarly old Presbyterian minister, whose memory his adopted son held in loving reverence.

The story of our acquaintance with Richard Moore is too long to be told here.Four years before he had come with us from the Pawnee country.  He had married Minny Adams with the full consent of her parents and the opposition of all her other friends.  Contrary to all prophecies, and with that inartistic disregard of the probable which events often show, they had been very happy together.

Mr. Moore otherwise Wyanota was a civil engineer, and stood high in his profession.

“Look here, mamma,” he said as he drove up.“Will you take in the wife and the small child for to-night?I must go away.”

“Certainly,” said I, overjoyed.  “But where are you going, to be caught in a storm?”

“Oh, they have got into a fuss with the hands over on the railroad, and have sent for me.I might have known Robinson wouldn’t manage when I left him?”

“Why not?”

“English!” said Wyn, most expressively.“No one can stand the airs he puts on.”

Now, such airs as Mr. Moore possessed and they were neither few nor far between were not put on, but were perfectly natural to him.

“Can’t you come in and get your tea?” I asked as he handed me the baby and helped his wife down.

“No:I must go over directly and compose matters.Good-bye, little woman:  by-bye, baby!Do you know, we think she’s beginning to say ‘papa?’” said Wyn, proudly; and then he kissed his wife and child and drove away.

I carried the infant phenomenon into the house and took off its wrappings.She was my namesake, and I loved the little creature, but I can’t say she was a pretty baby.She was a soft, brown thing, with her father’s beautiful southern eyes and her mother’s mouth, but otherwise she certainly was not handsome.She was ten months old, but she had a look of experience and wisdom in her wee face that would have made her seem old at twenty years.She sat on my lap and watched me in a meditative way, as though she were reviewing her former estimate of my character, and considering whether her opinions on that subject were well founded.  There was something quite weird and awful in her dignity and gravity.

“Isn’t she a wise-looking little thing?” said Minny.“She makes me think sometimes of the fairy changeling that was a hundred and fifty years old, and never saw soap made in an egg-shell.”

“This baby never would have made such a confession of ignorance, you may depend.  She would not have acknowledged that anything lay out of the range of her experience.Take your chicken till I get tea, for I am my own girl to-night.”

We had a very merry time over the tea-table and in washing up the dishes.Until the boys went to bed we were in something of a frolic with them and the baby, and it was not till the little one was asleep in her crib and Ed and Charley were quiet in bed that we noticed how wild the weather was getting.

The rain, which had at first fallen in pattering drops, was now driving in sheets before a mighty wind, which roared through the woods back of the house with a noise like thunder.The branches of the huge oaks in the front yard creaked and groaned as only oak boughs can.The house shook, the rain lashed the roof, and the wind clawed and rattled the blinds like some wild creature trying to get in.

“I hope Wyn is safe under shelter,’’ said Mrs. Moore.

“He will have reached the end of his journey long before this.I hope he will have no trouble with the men, but he is not apt to.  I pity poor Mr. Robinson.When Wyn chooses, his extreme politeness is something quite awful.”

“I will say for my husband,” observed Mrs. Moore, “that when he sets himself to work to be disagreeable, he can, without doing one uncourteous thing, be more aggravating than any one I ever saw in my life.”

“It is perfectly evident that he never tries his airs on you, or you would not speak so.Hear the wind blow!”

“It is no use listening to the weather.The house will stand, I suppose.  Have you got your work?Then let me read to you.  It will seem like old times, before I was married.”

Minny Moore was in some respects a very remarkable woman.Though little Carry was her first baby, she could talk on other subjects.  She did not expect you to listen with rapture to the tenth account of how baby had said “Da-da,” or thrill with agony over the tale of an attack of wind.She had been her husband’s friend and companion before the baby was born:she did not entirely throw him over now that it had come.  She had always been fond of reading, and she continued to keep up her interest in the world outside of her nursery.She thought that as her daughter grew up her mother would be as valuable as a guide and friend if she did not wholly sink the educated woman in the nurse-maid and seamstress.These habits may have been “unfeminine,” but they certainly made Mrs. Moore much more agreeable as a companion than if she had been able to talk of nothing but the baby’s clothes, teeth and ailments.

I took out my work, and Minny began to read Locksley Hall, which was then a new poem on this side the water.I had never heard it before, and I must confess I was much affected more than I should be now.Mrs. Moore, however, chose to say that she thought Amy had made a most fortunate escape, that she had no doubt but the hero would have been a most intolerable person to live with, and that their marriage, had it come to pass, would have ended in Amy’s taking in sewing to support both herself and her husband.As for the Squire, why we had no word for his character but his disappointed rival’s, and his drinking might be all a slander.As to his snoring, why poets might snore as well as other people.If he loved his wife “somewhat better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse,” “Why what more,” said Mrs. Moore, “could any woman ask of a man given to horses and hunting?  If Calvin Bruce ever cares more for a woman than he does for his brown pointer and his fast trotter, she may think herself happy indeed.”

At that instant a sudden and furious blast rushed out of the woods, and tore and shook at the four corners of the house as if to wrench it from its foundations.

“It’s quite awful to hear the wind scream like that,” said Minny.  “It is like the banshee.Hark! is not that some one knocking at the back door?”

I listened, and amid the rattling and shaking of blinds and timbers I heard what sounded like a hurried, impatient knock at the side door.  “Who can it be on such a wild night?” I said, and took the candle and went to open the door.  I set the light in the hall, for I knew the wind would blow it out.In spite of this precaution, however, the flame was extinguished, for as I drew back the bolt and lifted the latch the blast threw the door violently back on its hinges, and rushed into the hall as though exulting in having finally made an entrance.

“Pretty bad weather, mamma,” said some one in the softest, sweetest voice, like a courteous flute, and there entered my old friend the Black Panther.

This gentleman measured seven feet in his moccasins, and as he stood in our little entry he looked gigantic indeed.He closed the door with some difficulty, and I relit the candle.

“You are quite wet through,” I said, for the water dripped from his blanket and woolen hunting-frock.He carried his rifle in his hand, and I thought the old man looked very tired and sad, and even anxious.

“You all well?” he asked, earnestly.

“Certainly.The captain has gone away, and Minny and the baby are here for the night.My dear friend, where have you been in this weather?There is a good fire in the kitchen.Come and get dry there, and let me make you a cup of hot coffee and get you something to eat.”

Here Minny came out into the hall and held up her hands in sunrise.

“Oh, uncle,” she said, calling him by the name she had used toward him since her childhood, “how could you come out in all this rain, and bring on your rheumatism?How do you think any one is ever going to find dry clothes for such a big creature as you?”

The Panther gave a little grunt and a smile.He was used to Minny’s lectures, and he followed us both into the kitchen, where she made him sit down by the fire and took off his wet blanket, waiting on him like a daughter, and scolding him gently meanwhile.The old gentleman had of late years been subject to rheumatism, and it was too likely that this exposure would bring on another attack.The Panther patted her two little hands between his own.Like most of his race, he had beautiful hands, soft and rounded even in his old age, with long taper fingers that had, I dare say, taken more than one scalp in their time.

“Pooh!” said he, lightly.  “You think old Ingin melt like maple sugar?  You well?” he asked, anxiously.

“Quite so.”

“And little one?”

“As well as a little pig, fast asleep in the other room.”

“Where your husband?”

“Gone over to the railroad on business.”

“And yours?” he asked, turning to me.

“Gone to Carysville.Do you know anything about him? is anything the matter?” I asked, a little alarmed at his persistent questioning and an indefinite something in the old man’s tone and manner.

“Oh no,” said he, earnestly.“I come right over from our place.”

“Walked from the reservation in this storm!” said I.“What could have made you do such a thing?”

“Nothing just to see you.Not very strange come see two nice women,” said the old gentleman, with a little complimentary bow.

The Panther was somewhat vain of his knowledge of what he called “white manners,” but I never saw a white man who could be so gently dignified, so courteous, so altogether charming in manner, as the old chief when he chose.He hardly knew one letter from another, but he had had sixty-five years of experience in war and council.Many a man “got up regardless of expense” in college and society might have taken lessons in deportment from this old Pottawatomie.He had known Minny from her childhood.Her father’s farm had been the first clearing in all that part of the country.  Deacon Adams had always been on excellent terms with the Indians, and his little daughter had found her earliest playmates among their children.The Panther had carried Minny in his arms when she was a baby; and as his own family of boys and girls died one after another, he clung closer to the child who had been their pet as well as his own.

The Panther was one of those big, soft, easy men who seem made to be ruled by one woman or another.He was greatly respected in his tribe, and had much influence.When they had been a nation he had been one of their most distinguished warriors, and his word had been law.He had always maintained toward the “young men” a somewhat imperious manner.He had conducted himself with dignity and decision in all his visits to Washington, where he had been a great lion, and in all his dealings with the United States he had shown much wisdom and ability.But report said that when once within the domestic circle and before his squaw, the diplomatist and warrior was exceedingly meek.He bore his wife’s death with resignation, but he had never married again.He loved Minny Adams better than anything on earth, and the girl had great influence over him.She, in her turn, was very fond of him.From her earliest years he had been her friend, confidant and admirer.He looked so fierce and dangerous, and was so kind and simple, that the alliance between the girl and himself was very much like that between a little child and a big mastiff the child protected and leader, the dog protector and led.

Minny made flannel shirts for him, and he wore them:she trimmed his moccasins, and the dainty cambric ruffles which he wore when in grand costume were got up by her hands.The Panther, however, did not often appear in full dress.  She tried to teach him to read, and she did get him through the alphabet, but he greatly preferred hearing stories read to learning to do it for himself, and was especially fond of the Arabian Nights, which he quite believed.She even coaxed him to go to church with her, and might have made a convert of him but for the interference of an exceedingly silly young clergyman.The Panther rather liked to hear the Bible, but I fear he was more attracted by the sound than the sense:his favorite chapter was the story of David and Goliah.He used to say that “Ingin religion was good for Ingin, and white religion was good for white man.”  However, he never offered the least opposition to the missionary who had settled among his people:  indeed, he rather patronized that gentleman.

He and Wyanota were excellent friends.  It was good to see the deference and respect with which the younger man treated the elder.I always said that it was the Panther who made the match between Minny and Mr. Moore.Their house was one of his homes, and he was a frequent guest at our own.  He petted and spoiled my two children:he was very soft and kind to me, whom he called “Mamma,” after Wyn’s example, and he considered that my husband “understood good manners” a compliment which he did not pay to every one.

A dear little daughter whom we had lost had been very fond of him:the child had died in his arms.I was alone at the time, and the old man’s sympathy was such a comfort to me in my trouble that for his own sake, as well as for our little girl’s, he had become very dear to us.

For an Indian, the Panther might be called almost a sober character.He was seldom drunk more than four or five times a year, and when he was, he always was very careful to keep out of the way of his white friends until he was sober, when he would lecture the young men on the evils of intemperance in most impressive fashion.He was a good deal of an orator, possessing a voice of great sweetness and power; and though he was such an immense creature, all his movements were light and graceful as those of a kitten.He could speak perfectly good, even elegant, English when he chose, but he did not always choose, and generally omitted the pronouns; but his voice, manner and gestures in speaking were perfectly charming when he was in a good temper.When he was not, he was somewhat awful, but it was only under great provocation that he became savage.In general, he was an amiable, kind, lazy creature, whom it was very easy to love.

I could not but wonder that night, as I set out the table and made the coffee, what had brought the Panther so far in such wild weather.  He did not seem like himself.He was usually very conversable, and would chat away by the hour together, in a fashion half shrewd, half simple, often very interesting; but now he was silent and distrait.

“Carry,” said Mrs. Moore, “are there not some of Wyn’s things here yet in that old trunk in your lumber-room?”

“Yes.Perhaps you can find something the chief can put on, and bring down a pair of the captain’s socks and slippers.”

“Oh, never mind, never mind,” said the damp giant.

“But I will mind,” said the little woman; and she went out and soon returned with the things, which she insisted he should go and put on.

“Well, always one woman or another,” said the Panther in a tone of resignation:“always squaw git her own way.You see that little girl, mamma?Could squeeze her up just like a rabbit.  Always she order me round since she so high, and I just big fool enough let her;” and he went into the next room, and presently came out arrayed in dry garments, as to his upper man at least.I set the table with the best I had in the house, and Minny and I sat down to get a cup of coffee with our guest.

At any other time the old gentleman would have purred and talked over this little feast like an amiable old cat, but now he was rather silent; and I noticed that in the pauses of the wind he would stop as though listening for some expected sound.  I began to think he was concealing from me some misfortune or danger, and the same thought was evidently in Minny’s mind, for she watched him anxiously.

When we went back into the parlor the Panther walked to the baby’s crib, and stood for a moment looking at the sleeping child with a tenderness which softened his whole aspect.Then he asked for the little boys.

“They are fast asleep in the next room,” I said.“Go and look at them, and you will be sure.”

The Panther smiled, but he went into my room, which opened from the parlor, and bending down softly kissed the two little faces resting on the same pillow.

I drew a large chair to the fire for him, and Minny filled his pipe, for I had “followed the drum” too long to object to smoking.  The giant stretched his length of limb before the fire, but he did not seem quite at ease, even under the influence of the tobacco.He looked a little troubled and anxious, and lifted his head once or twice with a sudden motion, like a dog who has misgivings that something is wrong out-doors.

The baby stirred in her sleep, and the chief began gently to rock the cradle. “’Spose she order me about too, by and by,” he said, “like her mother.”

“Oh, you like to make that out,” said Minny, “because you are such a great big, strong man.If you were a little bit of a creature, you would always be standing on your dignity to make yourself look tall.The last time Wyn and I were at Detroit we went to church, and I heard the very smallest man I ever saw preach a tremendous sermon about the man being the head of the woman, insisting mightily on the respect we all owe to the other sex.  When we came out I asked Wyn what he thought, and he said he thought it was exactly such a sermon as such a very tiny man might be expected to preach.”

“Ah! and he heard you both, my dear,” said I; “and he says Mr. Moore has no element of reverence in his character!”

Here the Panther dropped his pipe, and starting from his chair looked like his namesake just ready for a spring, as the sharp, quick bark of a little dog was heard from the nearest house.

“Only dog,” he said in a tone of relief, and resumed his smoking.

“Uncle,” said Minny, “I do wish you would tell me what the matter is, or what you are listening for.You make me think there is something wrong.”

I looked up and seconded Minny’s request.

“’Spose I tell you, you think it all Ingin nonsense,” he said, looking a little embarrassed.

“Even if I did, sir, I should feel more comfortable,” I said.

“Yes, do tell us, please,” said Minny, earnestly.

“Well, then,” said the old man, speaking with an effort, “last night went out after a coon up in the woods right back of here ”

“Yes:well?”

“And went up on that little hill over your pasture, and then,” said the old man lowering his voice and speaking with great earnestness, “hear red fox bark one, two, three times out loud, and then again farther off.  There, now!”

I was greatly relieved at finding that I was threatened by nothing worse than the oracle of the red fox.I knew the Indian superstition that if this animal is heard to bark anywhere near a dwelling, he foretells death within twenty-four hours to some one beneath its roof.

“But,” said I, “the red fox is only a sign for Indians.He does not bark for white people, and you were not under a roof at the time, so it cannot apply to you.”

“Don’t know!” said the Panther, shaking his head.“Never know that sign fail.Then here this little woman and this baby all the same as Ingin now.”

Minny looked a little troubled.  In spite of his reading, his college education and mathematics, Wyanota had sundry queer notions and superstitions, about which he very seldom spoke, but which nevertheless had some weight with him, and it is possible that he had in some degree communicated his ideas to his wife.

“I don’t believe in signs,” said Minny, but nevertheless she looked annoyed.

“So I thought,” said the chief with a little smile.“Know mamma here think it all nonsense, or else come over this morning to tell her.Then think she not believe it and not mind, and so keep quiet.Then storm come up and wind blow, and couldn’t stand it; so set out and walk over here to take care of her; and she maybe she laugh at me?”

“No indeed, sir,” said I, greatly touched by the anxious affection which had brought the old man so far in such weather.  “How good you are to me!You mean to stay here to-night of course, and in the morning you will see that the red fox was simply barking for his own amusement; but I am sorry he drove you to take such a toilsome walk, though we are glad to have you here.”

“My business take care of you when your men gone.Got no one my own blood,” he said, rather sadly:“boys dead, girl dead, squaw dead no one but you two care much for old man.”

Minny went and kissed him softly.  “You know I belong to you,” she said, “and baby has no grandfather but you.”

“Ah! your father!” said the Panther, rocking the cradle.“He and I always good friends.’Member when you come, your mother she got no milk for you, poor little starved thing!My squaw she lose her baby nice little boy too,” said the old man, with a sigh “she tell your mother she nurse you; so she did.You git fat and rosy right off.You all the same one of us after that.No spoil your pretty white skin, though,” said the Panther, patting Minny’s cheek with his brown fingers.“Seem just like that happen yesterday:now you got baby yourself.Ah! your father mighty well pleased he be ’spose he see that little one.”

“How often I wish he could!” said “Minny with a sigh, for both her father and mother were dead.

“You ’pend upon it, he comfortable somewhere,” said the chief, consolingly.  “Deacon Adams, he real good man.Look here, mamma!Like to ask you question.You say when we die white man go to one place, Indian go to another ”

“I don’t say so, sir.  I don’t pretend to know all this world by heart, much less the other.”

“Well, that what Indian say, any way.Now ’spose that so, what come of half-breed, eh?”

“What do you think?” I asked, for neither Minny nor I could venture an opinion on this abstruse point.

“Don’t know,” said the old man.“Saw young Cherokee in Washington:  he marry pretty little schoolmistress go down there to teach, and their little boy die.Then that young man feel bad, and he fret good deal ’bout where that baby gone to, and he ask me, and I no able tell him.Guess me find out when get there:  no use to trouble till then, You make these?” he asked, changing the subject, and looking with admiration at the captain’s embroidered slippers which I had lent him.

“Yes.They were pretty when they were new.I’ll make you a pair just like them, if you wish.Shall I?”

The old gentleman looked greatly delighted, for he was as fond of finery as any girl, and took no small pride in adorning his still handsome person.

I brought out all my embroidery-patterns, and the giant took as much pleasure as a child in the pretty painted pictures and gay-colored wools and silks.I made all the conversation I could over the slippers, willing to divert him from the melancholy which seemed to have taken possession of his mind.Over my work-basket he brightened a little, and chatted away quite like himself, and listened with pleasure to Minny’s singing.We did not rise to go to bed till eleven o’clock, which was a very late hour for Maysville.When the Panther spent the night at our house, as was frequently the case, he never would go regularly to bed, but would take his blanket and lie down before the kitchen fire.  With great politeness he insisted on getting the wood ready for morning, a thing he never would have dreamed of doing for a woman of his own race.

As he came back into the kitchen from the shed he took up his rifle, which he had set down by the door.As he did so an angry look came over his face.“Look here,” he said:  “somebody been spoil my rifle!”

I looked at the piece in surprise, for the lock was broken.“It cannot have been done since you came,” I said.“There is no one in the house but ourselves.”

“Of course not, of course not!” said the Panther, eager to show that he had no suspicion of his friends.

“Did you stop anywhere on your way?”

“Yes,” said he with some slight embarrassment.“Stop at Ryan’s,” mentioning a low tavern on the borders of the reservation, which was a terrible thorn in the side of all the missionary’s efforts.“Stop a minute light my pipe, but no drink one drop,” he added with great earnestness; “but they ask me good deal.”

“Did you put your gun down?”

“Guess so,” he said after a moment’s reflection.“Yes, know did put it down a minute or two.”

“Then that was when the mischief was done, you may be sure.This lock was never broken by accident.It must have been a mere piece of spite because you would not stay.I wonder you did not notice it when you came out.”

“In a hurry, and kept the buckskin over it, not to git it wet.Wish knew who did that,” said he, with a look not good to see.  “Guess not do it again.”

“I am very sorry, but it can easily be mended.”

I spread out on the floor for him the comfortable and blankets I had brought for his use, and hung up his woolen hunting-frock, now quite dry.

As I took it into my hand, I felt something very heavy in the pocket.

“I hope you have nothing here that will be spoiled with wet?” I said.

“Oh, nothing but money,” said the chief, carelessly.“Mean to tell Minny to take some of it and buy clothes for me.”

He took out as he spoke a handful of loose change copper, silver and two or three gold-pieces and a roll of bills a good deal damp, and put it all into my apron.  I counted the money and found there were seventy-five dollars.Strong indeed must have been the attraction which had brought the old man away from the tavern-fire in his sober senses with such a sum of money in his pocket.

“Just got that,” he said.  “Part from Washington, part sell deer-skins.”

There was no need to tell me that it had not been long in his possession.Money in the Panther’s hands was like water in a sieve.

“You give me five dollars, give the rest to Minny,” he said; and as this was by much the wisest arrangement for him, I did as he wished.

“You got captain’s gun?” he asked me.“Never like to go to sleep without something to catch up:hit somebody ’spose somebody come.”

“I am sorry to say the captain has his rifle with him, and I lent the shotgun to Jim Brewster this afternoon.”

He looked annoyed, but he went out into the woodshed and returned with the axe, which was new and sharp.“Have something, anyway,” he said, doggedly.

“Why, what do you think can possibly happen?”

“Don’t know.Always like to have something to catch up.Good-night, mamma.You go to sleep.”

I went to bed and fell asleep almost on the minute, but I could not have slept long when I was wakened by the noise of the wind against the shutters.The rain had ceased, but the blast was still roaring without.Minny and her child were in a room which opened out of the parlor opposite my own.The lamp which was burning there threw a dim light into my chamber, and showed me each familiar object and my little boys asleep beside me.

Some one says that between the hours of one and four in the morning the human mind is not itself.I fully believe it.In those hours you do not “fix your mind” on melancholy subjects they fix themselves upon you.  If you turn back into the past, there comes up before you every occasion on which you made a fool of yourself, every lost opportunity, every slight injury you ever experienced.If you look at the future, you see nothing but coming failure and disappointment.  The present moment connects itself with every tale you ever heard or read of ghosts, murder, vampires or robbers.

That night, either because of the wind or because I had taken too strong coffee, I fell into “the fidgets,” as this state of mind is sometimes called, and selected for immediate cause of discomfort the Panther’s presentiment about the red fox.Who could explain the mysterious way in which animals are warned of approaching danger?  Perhaps the old science of divination was not so entirely a delusion; and then I remembered all the old stories in Roman history of people who had come to grief by neglecting the oracles.The old idea that whatever incident is considered as an omen will be such in reality, seemed to me at that hour of the night not wholly an unreasonable theory.

I had known, to be sure, some fifty presentiments which came to nothing, but then I had known as many as three which had been verified:  perhaps the present case might be one of the exceptions to the rule.Then I remembered all the stories in Scott’s Demonology, which I had lately read, and quite forgot all the arguments intended to disprove them.

I thought of the broken gun-lock:  I thought it not improbable that the Panther had, when at Ryan’s, mentioned that he was coming to our house, and that it was very likely he had let it appear that he carried his money with him.  Ryan’s was one of the worst places in all the State.I remembered that the money was in the house, and I began to wish, like the Panther, that I had something to “catch up.”Then there were so many noises about!I heard footsteps, which you will always hear if you listen for them on a windy night.When our petted old cat jumped from his place on the parlor sofa to lie down before the fire, I started up in bed in a sudden fright.

I must have been in this uncomfortable state of mind and body for the best part of an hour before I remembered that in a drawer in the front parlor lay two little old-fashioned pistols, unloaded but in good order.

I had grown so excited and uneasy that I felt as if I could not rest unless I got up, found those pistols and loaded them, though nobody had ever heard of a burglary in Maysville, and half the time the doors were left unlocked at night.  Rather despising myself for my nervousness, but yielding to it nevertheless, I rose, put on my dressing-gown and slippers, lit my candle and went to find the two little pistols.I stepped very softly, not to disturb Minny, for I should have been quite ashamed then to have her know my cowardice.I looked in at the door as I passed.She was sound asleep, with her baby on her arm.The baby, however, was broad awake, but lying perfectly still, with her little finger in her mouth.Her eyes shone in the lamplight as she turned them on me not startled like another child, but simply questioning.The little creature looked so unnaturally wise and self-possessed that I was reminded perforce of a wild tale Wyanota had once told me about a remote ancestress of his who had married some sort of a wood-demon.The legend ran that Wyanota’s family was descended from the offspring of this marriage, and I think Wyn more than half believed the story.

I passed on, and going into the next room found the pistols, carried them back to my own chamber, and loaded them carefully.I was quite accustomed to the use of firearms.There had been times in my life when I never sat down to my work or went to rest without having rifle or pistol within easy reach of my hand.When I had loaded the weapons, I put them on the table by my bed and lay down again.My excitement seemed to have subsided, and I was just falling asleep when I heard a door in the kitchen violently burst open.I thought the wind had done it, and waited a moment to hear if the Panther would rise and shut it.

The next instant there was a shot, a wild cry as of mingled pain and fury, the sound of a heavy fall and a struggle.Before I had well realized that the noise was in the house, I found myself at the kitchen door with my pistols in my hand.  I was greatly startled, but my one idea was to help my old friend.The miserable door resisted me for a moment.Seconds passed that seemed hours.  When at last I tore it open, I saw a man in his shirt sleeves lying dead on the floor, his head shattered apparently by a blow from the axe:another, a large, powerful Irishman, was kneeling on the Panther’s breast, with his hands at the old man’s throat.

I sprang forward, but something swifter than I darted past me with a savage cry, and, tearing and biting with claws and teeth, flung itself full at the ruffian’s face and naked throat.  It was our big old brindle cat, Tom, roused from his place before the fire.The unexpected fierceness of Tom’s assault took the man quite by surprise.  Before he could tear the creature away I had the pistol at his head.

“If you move,” I said, “I’ll kill you;” for, as I saw that my old friend was hurt, wrath took the place of fear.

He gave in directly.Indeed the cat, a large, powerful animal, had almost scratched his eyes out.In the most abject tones the fellow implored me to let him go.

“Don’t you do it, mamma,” said the Panther, faintly.

“I don’t mean to,” I said.

Under the kitchen stairs was a dark closet with a strong outside bolt.I ordered the man into this place.He obeyed, and I drew the bolt upon him.His face and throat were streaming with blood from Tom’s teeth and claws.

All this passed in much less time than it takes to tell it.Roused by the noise, the children, and Minny with the baby in her arms, were already in the kitchen.

“Oh, my dear, my poor darling!” said Minny, kneeling by the old man’s side, “you are hurt!”

“Yes,” he said, quietly, “pretty considerable bad.Charley, you fasten that door;” for the door into the shed, which had been secured only by a button, was wide open.  “You get the hammer and two, three big nails, and drive ’em in,” he continued.  “Maybe more them darn scamps round.”

Charley obeyed directions in a way which did him credit.Little Ned, with wide, surprised eyes, clung to me in silence; little Carry, seeing her mother in tears, put up a piteous lip and sobbed in her unbaby-like, sorrowful fashion; the old cat, in great excitement, went purring and talking from one to another.

“Tell me where you are hurt,” I said, holding the chief’s hand.

He had been shot through the stomach with a great, old-fashioned smooth-bore musket, which lay on the floor a gun not carrying less than twenty-five to the pound.I had seen gunshot wounds before, and I knew that this was serious.  It did not bleed much externally, but the edges of the wound were torn and discolored.

“That fellow dead?” asked the Panther.

“Yes indeed!” for the man’s head was split like a walnut.

The old warrior looked gratified.  “Mamma,” he said, touching his hunting-knife, “you take that fellow’s scalp.”

“Don’t think of such a thing,” I said, not so much shocked as I might have been had I not lived on the Indian frontier.  “Do you know who they are?”

“See them to Ryan’s.  Guess they some folks that mizzable railroad bring into this country.’Spect they follow me.  Mamma,” said the Panther, looking up into my face, “tell you, red fox not bark for nothing.  Better be old man than you.”

“Oh, my dear old friend, if you had only not come to us to-night!It was all your love for us that has done this, but I pray God you may get well.Charley, do you think you can go for Doctor Beach?”

“Yes, mamma,” said the boy, though he turned pale.

“No, no,” said the Panther.  “You no send that little fellow out in the dark.  Besides, no good.You go wrap yourselves up.  You two, you git bad cold.”

At that moment we heard the sound of wheels and horses’ feet.

“Go, Charley,” said Minny.  “Stop whoever it is, and tell them what has happened.”

Charley ran out, and soon returned with Dr. Beach, who, happily for us, had been out on one of those errands which are always rousing doctors from their beds.

Dr. Beach was a burly, rough-mannered sort of man, but he could be very kind and tender in the exercise of his profession.He wasted no time in questions, but looked grave when he saw how the old man was hurt.

“Needn’t tell me,” said the Panther, quietly.“Know it’s the end.Kill one of ’em, anyhow!” he concluded in a tone of calm satisfaction.

“And I wish with all my heart you had killed the other,” said the doctor, bitterly.“He got off, I suppose.”

The Panther showed his white teeth in a laugh.“No,” he said, pointing to me:“she got him she and the cat.Pretty well for one little squaw and pussy-cat.Mamma, you keep that kitty always.”

“Where is the scoundrel?” asked the doctor.

“Shut up in that closet.”

Here the man within cried out that he was “kilt” already, and should be hung if we did not let him go.

“I hope you will, with all my heart,” said the doctor.

With some difficulty we helped the Panther into the parlor and laid him on the sofa.

He told us the story in a few words.  He had been asleep when the door was burst open.  The man whom he had killed had fired the shot.  He had kept his feet to strike one blow with the axe, and the other man had sprung upon him as he fell.

The doctor did what little he could to ease his patient, and then went away, but soon returned with some men from the village, who were quite ready to lynch the criminal when they heard what he had done.They took the man away, however, and I am happy to say he afterward received the heaviest sentence the law would allow.He confessed that, knowing the chief had a large sum in his possession, himself and his companion had broken the lock of the rifle, intending to waylay the old man and shoot him in the woods.They had not, however, been able to overtake him till he reached the clearing, and then, fearing to encounter him, they had followed him at a distance and watched him enter our house.  Knowing that the captain was gone, they had waited until all was quiet, and then made their entrance as described.

The Panther asked that some one might go to the reservation and send over three of his friends, whom he named.He was very anxious to see Wyanota, and Calvin Bruce, who had come with the doctor, instantly volunteered to take his trotting mare and do both errands.The chestnut did her work gallantly, though unhappily in vain, for the old man did not live to see his friends.

“Don’t you fret, you two,” he said, softly, as Minny and I watched over him.  “Great deal the best way for old Ingin.  Die like a man now:not cough myself to death, like an old dog.Minny, little girl, you tell your husband be good to our people, well as he can.  Not much of our nation left now not good for much, either,” he added; “but you tell him and the captain stand their friends, won’t you?”

“Indeed, indeed they will,” said Minny in tears.

A Methodist clergyman of some kind, who preached in Maysville at that time, hearing what had happened, came in to offer his services and to pray with the dying man.The Panther thanked him courteously, but he clung to the simple creed of his fathers and his belief that “Ingin religion was good for Ingin;” and Mr. Lawrence had the sense and feeling not to disturb him by argument.

“Want your Charley to have my rifle,” he said to me.“Nobody left of our people but my cousin’s son, and he most a mizzable Ingin.You ’member that, please,” he said to Mr. Lawrence, who sat quietly at the head of the sofa.“Do you think,” he asked wistfully of the clergyman, “that I ever see these two again where I go?” The minister Heaven bless him! answered stoutly that he had not a doubt of it.“All right, then,” said the Panther, quietly.“Now, mamma, you see red fox know, after all.”

Minny brought her baby for him to kiss.Little Carry’s dark eyes were full of tears, for, like most babies, she felt the influence of sorrow she could not understand.She did not scream, as another child would, but hid her face on her mother’s bosom and sobbed quietly, like a grown-up woman.My two little boys, understanding all at once that their old friend was going away, burst out crying.

“Hush! hush!” he said, gently.“You be good boys to your mother.  Say ‘good-bye.’”

We kissed him, keeping back the lamentations which we knew would trouble him.

“Good-bye,” he said, softly, and then he spoke some few words in his own tongue, as Minny told me afterward, about going to his lost children.Then a smile came over his face, a look of sweet relief and comfort softened the stern features, the hand that had held mine so close slowly relaxed; and with a sigh he was gone.

The old minister gently closed his eyes.“My dear,” said Mr. Lawrence to Minny, who was in an agony of grief, “God knows, but it was His Son who said, ’Greater love hath no man than this that a man lay down his life for his friends!’”

When we buried the old chief we wrote those words on the stone we placed over his grave.

Since then the New Year’s Eve brings back to me very vividly the memory of the augury that so strangely accomplished its own fulfillment.

CLARA F. GUERNSEY.