Deerfoot had risen to his feet and, in a voice tremulous with emotion, he said:
“My brother has done well. He will never be sorry. The Great Spirit will make him strong, but my brother must pray to Him for himself.”
“Pray!” repeated the trapper; “that’s goin’ to be ’bout all I’ll do atween here and St. Louis, and I won’t let up till the good Lord does what you say, and what I know He’ll be powerful glad to do for such a miserable scamp as me.”
The next act of the trapper was as remarkable as the former one. He strode out to where he had sent the three horses, roused each and began reloading them and saddling and bridling his own. Suspecting his purpose, Deerfoot asked:
“Will not my brother wait till morning?”
“Not a minute longer than I have to. I’m afeard that mother of mine will die afore I can git to her and beg her to forgive and help me to be a half-decent man.”
Instead of protesting, Deerfoot aided in reloading the animals. Neither spoke while this was going on. When it was finished and the massive trapper had swung again into his saddle, he reached his broad palm down to his new friend.
“Good-bye, Shawanoe. May I ax you when you’re at your prayers to put in a word for me! I’ve an idee that the Lord will be more pleased to hear from you than me.”
“Deerfoot will never forget to do as his brother asks, and he is sure that all will now be well with his brother.”
“I’ll make a big wrastle for it. Good-bye!”