“Have no fear for Tenskwatawa’s safety,” Bradford said in reassuring tones. “His horse carried him out of danger. Ah! I hear the sound of hoofs. He’s returning.”
The panic-stricken savages were resuming the march. Down the trail came a body of braves with the runaway pack-horses. At their head rode the Prophet, leading his daughter’s pony.
“La Violette! La Violette!” he called wailingly.
“Here, father—here I am,” she answered in a clear, bird-like voice, as she descended to the trail.
Tenskwatawa sprang to the ground and, enfolding her in his strong arms, murmured gutturally:
“The Great Spirit is very kind. He spared your life, my daughter.”
“Yes, father,” La Violette assented; “but the young paleface carried me out of the way of danger.”
“Who?” in a low, fierce tone.
“Fleet Foot,” Bradford answered from the darkness.