“It is enough,” said Wilder, at last. “I can say no more. Here, White Shield, is my rifle that shoots twice. I give it to you, and I know that you will use it well. The pipe-holder, too, is yours. None like it was ever seen among the Blackfeet. Take my powder-horn also, and keep them all in remembrance of your brother.”
“What does my brother mean? Why has he given me these things?”
“I have no more use for them. I am going to the spirit-land. Keep them, to remind you of Silverspur, whom you forced to die. I must break my word, and I can live no longer. Farewell!”
Wilder stepped forward to the edge of the cliff, and threw up his hands.
With a sharp cry the Indian darted toward him, threw his arms around him, lifted him up bodily, and carried him back to a distance from the dangerous spot, where he laid him on the ground.
“Let my brother live!” said the warrior, as he kneeled by the side of the white man. “I will do what he asks me to do, though he asks more than my life. I will leave my people forever, and will follow him where he chooses to lead me. Is my brother satisfied?”
Wilder could not help pitying the Indian, whose genuine emotion had nearly overcome him; but he had gained his point, and he was satisfied. The two returned to the village, where they shut themselves up in their lodge, and made their arrangements for carrying away Flora Robinette.
During the day they selected five fleet horses—two for each of themselves, and one for the young lady, and concealed them in the grove where Wilder had his interview with Flora. They also secured sufficient ammunition, and a good supply of provisions, which they concealed in the same place.
After nightfall, when the village was quiet, White Shield set out alone, directing his friend to go to the grove and wait for him.
As Wilder passed through the village, he saw a pole in front of the medicine-lodge, from which were hanging the dried scalps of Mr. Robinette and Sam Glass. Some strange impulse caused him to take the gray scalp from the pole, and to thrust it into the bosom of his hunting-shirt, the general receptacle of trappers for all odds and ends. He then went to where the horses were concealed and waited for the companions of his journey.