Far from the home of his kindred, far from the home of any of his race, and in the wilds where Indians roamed without restraint, was the cabin of Alfred Carter.
Three years before the opening scenes of this story, Alfred Carter had squatted upon the banks of the Republican River, and with the aid of only his brave wife and pretty daughter Rose, and his young son Edgar, he had built a stout and comfortable cabin, half fort, half house.
The prairies around him furnished food for his small family, and his cattle roamed near at hand. A quiet, sad-looking man, ever generous and peaceable, Alfred Carter had no enemies.
Even the Sioux were friendly to him, although they were at war with the whites, for the settler had often fed them from his table, and when their great chief was severely wounded and would have died for want of care, Alfred Carter had nursed him back to life, and forever won his friendship.
Seated in the cabin door, upon the day that the scout ran the gantlet of the band of Sioux warriors, was a girl of eighteen, with large, velvety eyes, a dark complexion, and long, waving black hair.
This girl was Rose Carter. She was engaged in knitting a pair of cotton socks for her father, for she was a true frontier girl, ever industrious and brave.
Presently a shadow fell upon her, and glancing up she saw an Indian girl of sixteen, a beautiful child of the forest, with a graceful, slender form, clothed in a handsome suit of bead-wrought buckskin, and with a crown of richly colored feathers upon her head.
“Who are you, girl, and what can I do for you?” said Rose, struck by the great beauty and grace of the Indian girl.
“I am the Red Bud of the Forest, the child of the mighty Pawnee chief, and I have come from my village beyond the prairie to tell the paleface maiden to beware of the false tongue of the paleface brave with eyes like the skies, for he would lead her from her happy home.”
“Of whom do you speak, Red Bud of the Forest?” said the mystified Rose.