Three days after the conversation related in the last chapter, a party on horseback, numbering five persons, left the Blackfoot camp, and, entering one of the patches of forest with which the eastern slopes of the mountains were clothed, trotted smartly away in the direction of the rising sun.

The party consisted of Rushing River and his mother, Moonlight, Skipping Rabbit, and Eaglenose.

The latter, although still afflicted with a nose the swelled condition of which rendered it out of all proportion to his face, and interfered somewhat with his vision, was sufficiently recovered to travel, and also to indulge his bantering talk with the “skipping one,” as he called his little friend.  The chief was likewise restored, excepting the stump of the little finger, which was still bandaged.  Umqua had been prevailed on to accompany her son, and it is only just to the poor woman to add that she believed herself to be riding to a martyr’s doom.  The chief however, did not think so, else he would not have asked her to accompany him.

Each of the party was mounted on a strong horse, except Skipping Rabbit, who bestrode an active pony more suited to her size.  We say bestrode, because it must ever be borne in remembrance that Red India ladies ride like gentlemen-very much, no doubt, to their own comfort.

Although Rushing River had resolved to place himself unarmed in the power of his enemy, he had no intention of travelling in that helpless condition in a country where he was liable to meet with foes, not only among men but among beasts.  Besides, as he carried but a small supply of provisions, he was dependent on gun and bow for food.  Himself, therefore, carried the former weapon, Eaglenose the latter, and both were fully armed with hatchet, tomahawk, and scalping-knife.

The path-if such it may be called-which they followed was one which had been naturally formed by wild animals and wandering Indians taking the direction that was least encumbered with obstructions.  It was only wide enough for one to pass at a time, but after the first belt of woodland had been traversed, it diverged into a more open country, and finally disappeared, the trees and shrubs admitting of free passage in all directions.

While in the narrow track the chief had headed the little band.  Then came Moonlight, followed by Umqua and by Skipping Rabbit on her pony, Eaglenose bringing up the rear.

On emerging, however, into the open ground, Rushing River drew rein until Moonlight came up alongside of him.  Eaglenose, who was quick to profit by example-especially when he liked it-rode up alongside of the skipping one, who welcomed him with a decidedly pale-face smile, which showed that she had two rows of bright little teeth behind her laughing lips.

“Is Moonlight glad,” said the chief to the girl, after riding beside her for some time in silence, “is Moonlight glad to return to the camp of Bounding Bull?”

“Yes, I am glad,” replied the girl, choosing rather to answer in the matter-of-fact manner of the pale-faces than in the somewhat imaginative style of the Indians.  She could adopt either, according to inclination.

There was a long pause, during which no sound was heard save the regular patter of the hoofs on the lawn-like turf as they swept easily out and in among the trees, over the undulations, and down into the hollows, or across the level plains.

“Why is Moonlight glad?” asked the chief.

“Because father and mother are there, and I love them both.”

Again there was silence, for Moonlight had replied some what brusquely.  The truth is that, although rejoicing in the prospect of again seeing her father and mother, the poor girl had a lurking suspicion that a return to them meant final separation from Rushing River, and-although she was too proud to admit, even to herself, that such a thought affected her in any way-she felt very unhappy in the midst of her rejoicing, and knew not what to make of it.  This condition of mind, as the reader knows, is apt to make any one lower than an angel somewhat testy!

On coming to a rising ground, up which they had to advance at a walking pace, the chief once more broke silence in a low, soft voice-

“Is not Moonlight sorry to quit the Blackfoot camp?”

The girl was taken by surprise, for she had never before heard an Indian-much less a chief-address a squaw in such a tone, or condescend to such a question.  A feeling of self-reproach induced her to reply with some warmth-

“Yes, Rushing River, Moonlight is sorry to quit the lodges of her Blackfoot friends.  The snow on the mountain-tops is warmed by the sunshine until it melts and flows down to the flowering plains.  The heart of Moonlight was cold and hard when it entered the Blackfoot camp, but the sunshine of kindness has melted it, and now that it flows towards the grassy plains of home, Moonlight thinks with tenderness of the past, and will never forget.”

Rushing River said no more.  Perhaps he thought the reply, coupled with the look and tone, was sufficiently satisfactory.  At all events, he continued thereafter to ride in profound silence, and, checking his steed almost imperceptibly, allowed his mother to range up on the other side of him.

Meanwhile Eaglenose and Skipping Rabbit, being influenced by no considerations of delicacy or anything else, kept up a lively conversation in rear.  For Eaglenose, like his chief, had freed himself from some of the trammels of savage etiquette.

It would take up too much valuable space to record all the nonsense that these two talked to each other, but a few passages are worthy of notice.

“Skipping one,” said the youth, after a brief pause, “what are your thoughts doing?”

“Swelled-nosed one,” replied the child, with a laugh at her own inventive genius, “I was thinking what a big hole you must have made in the ground when you got that fall.”

“It was not shallow,” returned the youth, with assumed gravity.  “It was big enough to have buried a rabbit in, even a skipping one.”

“Would there have been room for a jumping-jack too?” asked the child, with equal gravity; then, without waiting for an answer, she burst into a merry laugh, and asked where they were travelling to.

“Has not Moonlight told you?”

“No, when I asked her about it yesterday she said she was not quite sure, it would be better not to speak till she knew.”

“Moonlight is very wise-almost as wise as a man.”

“Yes, wiser even than some men with swelled noses.”

It was now the youth’s turn to laugh, which he did quite heartily, for an Indian, though with a strong effort to restrain himself.

“We are going, I believe,” he said, after a few moments’ thought, “to visit your father, Bounding Bull.  At least the speech of Rushing River led Eaglenose to think so, but our chief does not say all that is in his mind.  He is not a squaw-at least, not a skipping one.”

Instead of retorting, the child looked with sudden anxiety into the countenance of her companion.

“Does Rushing River,” she asked, with earnest simplicity, “want to have his tongue slit, his eyes poked in, his liver pulled out, and his scalp cut off?”

“I think not,” replied Eaglenose, with equal simplicity, for although such a speech from such innocent lips may call forth surprise in a civilised reader, it referred, in those regions and times, to possibilities which were only too probable.

After a few minutes’ thought the child said, with an earnest look in her large and lustrous eyes, “Skipping Rabbit will be glad-very glad-to see her father, but she will be sorry-very sorry-to lose her friends.”

Having now made it plain that the feelings of both captives had been touched by the kindness of their captors, we will transport them and the reader at once to the neighbourhood of Bounding Bull’s camp.

Under the same tree on the outskirts which had been the scene of the girls’ capture, Rushing River and Eaglenose stood once more with their companions, conversing in whispers.  The horses had been concealed a long way in rear, to prevent restiveness or an incidental neigh betraying them.

The night was intensely dark and still.  The former condition favoured their enterprise, but the latter was unfavourable, as it rendered the risk of detection from any accidental sound much greater.

After a few minutes’ talk with his male companion, the chief approached the tree where the females stood silently wondering what their captors meant to do, and earnestly hoping that no evil might befall any one.

“The time has come,” he said, “when Moonlight may help to make peace between those who are at war.  She knows well how to creep like the serpent in the grass, and how to speak with her tongue in such a way that the heart of the listener will be softened while his ear is charmed.  Let Moonlight creep into the camp, and tell Bounding Bull that his enemy is subdued; that the daughter of Leetil Tim has conquered him; that he wishes for friendship, and is ready to visit his wigwam, and smoke the pipe of peace.  But tell not that Rushing River is so near.  Say only that Moonlight has been set free; that Manitou of the pale-faces has been whispering in the heart of Rushing River, and he no longer delights in revenge or wishes for the scalp of Bounding Bull.  Go secretly, for I would not have the warriors know of your return till you have found out the thoughts of the chief.  If the ear of the chief is open and his answer is favourable, let Moonlight sound the chirping of a bird, and Rushing River will enter the camp without weapons, and trust himself to the man who was once his foe.  If the answer is unfavourable, let her hoot like the owl three times, and Rushing River will go back to the home of his fathers, and see the pleasant face of Moonlight no more.”

To say that Moonlight was touched by this speech would give but a feeble description of her feelings.  The unusual delicacy of it for an Indian, the straightforward declaration implied in it and the pathetic conclusion, would have greatly flattered her self-esteem, even if it had not touched her heart.  Yet no sign did she betray of emotion, save the somewhat rapid heaving of her bosom as she stood with bowed head, awaiting further orders.

“Moonlight will find Skipping Rabbit waiting for her here beside this tree.  Whether Bounding Bull is for peace or war, Rushing River returns to him his little one.  Go, and may the hand of Manitou guide thee.”

He turned at once and rejoined Eaglenose, who was standing on guard like a statue at no great distance.

Moonlight went immediately and softly into the bushes, without pausing to utter a single word to her female companions, and disappeared.

Thereupon the chief and his young brave lay down, and, resting there in profound silence, awaited the result with deep but unexpressed anxiety.

Well did our heroine know every bush and rock of the country around her.  With easy, soundless motion she glided along like a flitting shadow until she gained the line of sentries who guarded the camp.  Here, as on a former occasion, she sank into the grass, and advanced with extreme caution.  If she had not possessed more than the average capacity of savages for stalking, it would have been quite impossible for her to have eluded the vigilance of the young warriors.  As it was, she narrowly escaped discovery, for, just as she was crossing what may he termed the guarded line, one of the sentinels took it into his head to move in her direction.  Of course she stopped and lay perfectly flat and still, but so near did the warrior come in passing that his foot absolutely grazed her head.  But for the intense darkness of the night she would have inevitably been caught.

Creeping swiftly out of the sentinel’s way before he returned, she gained the centre of the camp, and in a few minutes was close to her father’s wigwam.  Finding a little hole in the buffalo-skins of which it was chiefly composed, she peeped in.

To her great disappointment, Little Tim was not there, but Brighteyes was, and a youth whom she knew well as one who was about to join the ranks of the men, and go out on his first war-path on the first occasion that offered.

Although trained to observe the gravity and reticence of the Indian, this youth was gifted by nature with powers of loquacity which he found it difficult to suppress.  Knowing this, Moonlight felt that she dared not trust him with her secret, and was much perplexed how to attract her mother’s attention without disturbing him.  At last she crept round to the side of the tent where her mother was seated, opposite to the youth.  Putting her lips to another small hole which she found there, she whispered “Mother,” so softly that Brighteyes did not hear, but went calmly on with her needlework, while the aspirant for Indian honours sent clouds of tobacco from his mouth and nose, and dreamed of awful deeds of daring, which were probably destined to end also in smoke.

“Mother!” whispered Moonlight again.

The whisper, though very slightly increased, was evidently heard, for the woman became suddenly motionless, and turned slightly pale, while her lustrous eyes gazed at the spot whence the sound had come.

“What does Brighteyes see?” asked the Indian youth, expelling a cloud from his lips and also gazing.

“I thought I heard-my Moonlight-whisper.”

A look of grave contempt settled on the youth’s visage as he replied-

“When love is strong, the eyes are blind and the ears too open.  Brighteyes hears voices in the night air.”

Having given utterance to this sage opinion with the sententious solemnity of an oracle, or the portentous gravity of “an ass”-as modern slang might put it-the youth resumed his pipe and continued the stupefaction of his brain.

The woman was not sorry that her visitor took the matter thus, for she had felt the imprudence of having betrayed any symptom of surprise, whatever the sound might be.  When, therefore, another whisper of “Mother!” was heard, instead of looking intelligent, she bestowed some increased attention on her work, yawned sleepily once or twice, and then said-

“Is there not a council being held to-night?”

“There is.  The warriors are speaking now.”

“Does not the young brave aspire to raising his voice in council?”

“He does,” replied the youth, puffing with a look of almost superhuman dignity, “but he may not raise his voice in council till he has been on the war-path.”

“I should have thought,” returned Brighteyes, with the slightest possible raising of her eyebrows, “that a brave who aims so high would find it more pleasant to be near the council tent talking with the other young braves than to sit smoking beside a squaw.”

The youth took the hint rather indignantly, rose, and strode out of the tent in majestic silence.

No sooner was he gone than Moonlight darted in and fell into her mothers arms.  There was certainly more of the pale-face than of the red man’s spirit in the embrace that followed, but the spirit of the red man soon reasserted itself.

“Mother,” she said eagerly and impressively, “Rushing River is going to be my husband!”

“Child,” exclaimed the matron, while her countenance fell, “can the dove mate with the raven? the rabbit with the wolf?”

“They can, for all I care or know to the contrary,” said Moonlight- impelled, no doubt, by the spirit of Little Tim.  “But” she continued quickly, “I bear a message to Bounding Bull.  Where is he?”

“Not in the camp, my daughter.  He has gone to the block-house to see the preacher.”

“And father.  Is he here?”

“No, he has gone with Bounding Bull.  There is no chief in the camp just now-only the young braves to guard it.”

“How well they guard it-when I am here!” said the girl, with a laugh; then, becoming intensely earnest, she told her mother in as few words as possible the object of her visit, concluding with the very pertinent question, “Now, what is to be done?”

“You dare not allow Rushing River to enter the camp just now,” said Brighteyes.  “The young men would certainly kill him.”

“But I must not send him away,” returned the perplexed Moonlight.  “If I do, I-I shall never-he will never more return.”

“Could you not creep out of camp as you crept in and warn him?”

“I could, as far as the sentinels are concerned, for they are little better than owls; but it is growing lighter now, and the moon will be up soon-I dare not risk it.  If I were caught, would not the braves suspect something, and scour the country round?  I know not what to do, yet something must be done at once.”

For some minutes the mother and daughter were silent, each striving to devise some method of escaping from their difficulty.  At last Brighteyes spoke.

“I see a way, my child,” she said, with more than her wonted solemnity, even when discussing grave matters.  “It is full of danger, yet you must take it, for I see that love has taken possession of my Moonlight’s heart, and-there is no withstanding love!”

She paused thoughtfully for a few moments, and then resumed-

“One of your father’s horses is hobbled down in the willow swamp.  He put it there because the feeding is good, and has left no one to guard it because the place is not easily found, as you know, and thieves are not likely to think of it as a likely place.  What you must do is to go as near our lines as you dare, and give the signal of the owl.  Rushing River will understand it, and go away at once.  He will not travel fast, for his heart will be heavy, and revenge to him is no longer sweet.  That will give you time to cross the camp, creep past the sentinels, run down to the swamp, mount the horse, and go by the short cuts that you know of until you get in front of the party or overtake them.  After that you must lead them to the block-house,” (Brighteyes never would consent to call it Tim’s Folly after she understood the meaning of the name), “and let the chief manage the rest.  Go.  You have not a moment to lose.”

She gave her daughter a final embrace, pushed her out of the tent and then sat down with the stoicism of a Red Indian to continue her work and listen intently either for the savage yells which would soon indicate the failure of the enterprise, or the continued silence which would gradually prove its success.