They sought no friendships, returning no visits from their neighbors, yet were ever hospitable to those who called.
Of course, a girl of Jennie Bernard's beauty could not but win admirers, and even in that sparsely settled valley she had half a dozen lovers, all of them most anxious to win her especial regard, yet not one of whom was assured that he could do so.
But one lover Jennie had, to whom she was more friendly than to any of the others.
This one was Red Hatchet, a young Sioux chief, and as handsome a specimen of Indian manhood as could be found anywhere. Six feet in his moccasins, possessing a superb physique, quick as a panther in his movements, yet graceful as a deer, while his face was cast in an intelligent and noble mold, that bespoke spirit and an undaunted nature.
He was a bold hunter, and was wont to come to the Bernard homestead with pelts for sale, and game, and he always found in the settler a ready buyer of what he brought.
One afternoon he was on his way back to his village, when he heard a shot fired not far from the trail he was following, and then a cry, as if of pain, or alarm, followed by a second shot.
The cry came from a woman's lips, he knew, and not an Indian's.
Quickly he bounded toward the spot from whence the shots had come, and came upon a strange scene.
A horse lay dead in the trail, and standing near was Jennie Bernard, the captive of two warriors.
As he drew nearer Red Hatchet beheld a third brave lying dead upon the ground.