But if such were the fact, how could his descent of the chimney be explained?
Melville did not try to explain it, for he had no time just then to speculate upon it; the explanation would come shortly.
The youth, however, was too wise to act upon that which he hoped was the truth. He had retreated nearly to the other side of the room, where he maintained the same defiant attitude as at first.
Red Feather read the distrust in his face and manner. With a deliberation that was not lacking in dignity, he walked slowly to the corner of the apartment, Melville closely following him with his eye, and leaned his gun against the logs. Then he drew his knife and tomahawk from his girdle, and threw them on the floor beside the more valuable weapon. That done, he moved back to the fire-place, folded his arms, and, fixing his black eyes on the countenance of the lad, repeated—"Red Feather friend of white folk."
"I believe you," responded Melville, carefully letting down the hammer of his rifle and resting the stock on the floor; "now I am glad to shake hands with you."
A broader smile than before lit up the dusky face as the chief warmly pressed the hand of the youth, who felt just a little trepidation when their palms met.
"Where pappoose?" asked Red Feather, looking suggestively at the steps leading to the upper story.
"Dot!" called Melville, "come down here; someone wants to see you."
The patter of feet was heard, and the next instant the little one came tripping downstairs, with her doll clasped by one arm to her breast.
"Red Feather is a good Indian now, and he wants to shake hands with you."