He was alone, no one near, though at the distance of a few hundred yards, the young Indians were engaged in active sports and their shouts and laughter occasionally broke the stillness of the woodland scene.
He waited what seemed an age to his tortured nerves, perceiving neither sound nor motion within the tent, then rose and moved slowly toward the spot where he had left his faithful steed.
He had not quite reached it when a hand was laid lightly upon his arm, and turning he found a tall young brave standing by his side.
"Does the pale face forget?" he asked in good English, holding out his hand.
"Have we ever met before?" asked Kenneth, earnestly scanning the lad's face, while he took the hand in a cordial grasp and shook it heartily.
"Indians never forget good white men," continued the lad, "white man find Little Horn in the snow, take him in his arms, carry him to his fire, wrap him in his blanket, feed him. White man very good. Indian boy love good white man."
"Oh I remember you now!" cried Kenneth, joyfully, shaking hands with increased cordiality, while his face lighted up with his rare, beautiful smile. "I am glad to meet you again. Tell me, can I do anything more for you?"
"Little Horn's turn now. What would my friend with White Swan, the warrior Black Eagle's squaw?"
"I wish to talk with her about my mother and father, whom she once knew," said Kenneth. "But she refuses to listen or to speak."
"Has my friend heap money?"