“Rushing River was but a boy,” continued the chief, “when the pale-face preacher came to the camp of the Blackfeet.”
A gleam of intelligence seemed to shoot from the eyes of the dying man.
“Yes, yes,” he said faintly; “I remember.”
“My father,” continued the chief, “spoke to Rushing River about his sins—about the Great Manitou; about Jesus, the Saviour of all men, and about the Great Spirit. Rushing River did not believe then—he could not—but the Great Spirit must have been whispering to him since, for he believes now.”
A look of quiet joy settled on the preacher’s face while the chief spoke.
Rousing himself with an effort, he said, as he turned a glance towards the captives—
“If you truly love Jesus, let these go free.”
The chief had to bend down to catch the feebly-spoken words. Rising instantly, he drew his knife, went to Little Tim, and cut the thongs that bound him. Then he cut those of Big Tim and Whitewing, and lastly those of Bounding Bull.
He had scarcely completed the latter act when his old enemy suddenly snatched the knife out of his hand, caught him by the right arm with a vice-like grasp, and pointed the weapon at his heart.
“Bounding Bull,” he said fiercely, “knows not the meaning of all this, but he knows that his child is in the Blackfoot camp, and that Rushing River is at his mercy.”