The young chief raised his eyes and gazed into those of his wife.
“That is true,” he replied; “but the voice of my beautiful wife cheers me, though I was only thinking—thinking of our great chief, Black Bear.”
“Oh, yes,” replied the beautiful Indian woman; “it had not occurred to my mind before, that to-day Black Bear was to return from the great wigwams of the pale-faces.”
“Yes, and may his heart not be filled with evil when he comes. Black Bear is a bad man. He causes much trouble between the pale-faces and my people. He has made many widows and orphans among the great Cheyenne nation—waged war till Cheyenne blood flowed like water.”
Two miles from the Indian encampment on a high, bold bluff stood Rodger Rainbolt, the ranger. One hand was resting upon his animal’s arched neck, while with the other he held his spy-glass to his eyes as he watched a tiny dark speck in the misty sky before him. That speck was Echo, his eagle.
“Yes, there are Indians there,” he muttered to himself, “and perhaps they are the ones that I am in pursuit of. Echo, noble, sagacious bird, has traced them out, and now he marks the spot by poising himself in the air—now by descending—now rising again—now circling around and around. Ah, noble bird! he circles away, away; he knows his mission is done for the present, and now—”
He lowered his glass and taking the coiled horn from his saddle, placed it to his lips and blew a shrill, prolonged blast, which, as it echoed far back over the hills, reached the ear of the eagle, and immediately it headed its flight toward its master. In a few minutes it was perched upon his shoulder.
“Your work is well done, Echo,” said the ranger, caressing the bird, “and I have only to await darkness to accomplish mine.”