"Eagle Eye! Oh, poor, poor Eagle Eye!" and being a real little woman she sat down beside the body and began to cry.
For a long time she kneeled beside the body of the young Indian whom she had so tenderly nursed back to health. The face looked just as she had seen it often, keen, thin, silent, the eyes closed, the grave lips motionless, the bronze-hued features set in the dignified mold of death.
"Eagle Eye, Eagle Eye," she called to him softly, placing her hands on his and bending nearer. "Oh, poor Eagle Eye, where have you been; how, how, did this terrible thing happen to you?"
The cold, immovable face remained impassive, the grave set lips made no reply.
She rose presently, and stood for a time looking down upon him. She knew that the body must not be left lying exposed on the prairie; that wolves, vultures, coyotes, the hideous carrion-crows would soon find it.
"I'll come back, Eagle Eye," she said as she left him, "even if you were not grateful to us for what we did for you, we will see that you have a proper burial." She mounted the pony and had started to ride away when a little distance farther on she saw a black object in the snow. Curious as to what it might be she rode to it. As she slipped from the pony's back and stooped over it she saw that it was a black tin box, which had once had a lock, which had been broken and torn away.
She examined it curiously, then tucking it under her arm rode home as fast as Flora could carry her.
"Mother, oh, Mother," she shouted as she burst into the house, "I found Eagle Eye—our Eagle Eye—lying out there on the prairie—dead—under a snowdrift!"
"Eagle Eye? You mean our Eagle Eye? The young Indian we took care of after he was shot?" cried Mrs. Peniman, running to her.
"Yes, yes," the tears were running down Ruth's cheeks now; "oh, yes, Mother, our own Eagle Eye; and oh, Mother, he was lying right under a drift, and I saw his feet, and when I uncovered his face I saw that it was Eagle Eye. He must have got lost in the blizzard——"