“Anatole is a dog; but, he is brave,” replied the chief.
“Anatole and this man would have made me a prisoner. I shot the Sioux and took this man prisoner, and made him carry the deer from the mountain.”
“Good!” said the chief, briefly. “Can the white girl shoot straight?”
“I will show you,” replied Myrtle, not in the spirit of bravado but because of the effect it might have upon the Indians if they should become enemies again. “Does Whirlwind see the bird on the bush?” she pointed to a wood thrush, nearly ninety yards distant.
“Whirlwind sees.”
She stepped to the front and lifted the carbine, which was one of the best make, or was, rather, a short rifle. She felt that it was necessary to make a good shot after what had been said and was very careful. Indians as a rule are not good marksmen, and none of the warriors had any idea that she would hit the bird, but to their utter surprise it fell at the crack of the rifle and one of the warriors scurried away to pick up the game. Throwing himself out of the saddle hanging by one foot, he swooped up the dead bird and brought it in. The head had been severed from the neck as neatly as if it had been done by a knife.
“My daughter can shoot,” said the chief. “I believe that she shot Anatole and took the white man prisoner. A brave warrior must make the white girl his wife.”
He said no more, but calling to his men they rode away rapidly, leaving the girl alone. It might have been an hour later when Old Pegs came into the valley.
“I’ve seen the brigade and they ar’ having trouble,” he said. “They’ve hed four men killed this week by the cussid Sioux.”
“What do they want, father?” said Myrtle. “Why should they seek to drive our men away?”