“I say, Whitewing,” whispered Tim, touching the chief with his elbow, and glancing at the young woman with approval—for Tim, who was an affectionate fellow and anxious about his friend’s welfare, rejoiced to observe that the girl was obedient and prompt as well as pretty—“I say, is that her?”
Whitewing looked with a puzzled expression at his friend.
“Is that her—the girl, you know?” said Little Tim, with a series of looks and nods which were intended to convey worlds of deep meaning.
“She is my sister—Brighteyes,” replied the Indian quietly, as he continued his work.
“Whew!” whistled the trapper. “Well, well,” he murmured in an undertone, “you’re on the wrong scent this time altogether, Tim. Ye think yerself a mighty deal cliverer than ye are. Niver mind, the one that he says he loves more nor life’ll turn up soon enough, no doubt. But I’m real sorry for the old ’un,” he added in an undertone, casting a glance of pity on the poor creature, who bent over the little fire in the middle of the tent, and gazed silently yet inquiringly at what was going on. “She’ll niver be able to stand a flight like this. The mere joltin’ o’ the nags ’ud shake her old bones a’most out of her skin. There are some Redskins now, that would leave her to starve, but Whitewing’ll niver do that. I know him better. Now then”—aloud—“have ye anything more for me to do?”
“Let my brother help Brighteyes to bring up and pack the horses.”
“Jist so. Come along, Brighteyes.”
With the quiet promptitude of one who has been born and trained to obey, the Indian girl followed the trapper out of the wigwam.
Being left alone with the old woman, some of the young chief’s reserve wore off, though he did not descend to familiarity.
“Mother,” he said, sitting down beside her and speaking loud, for the old creature was rather deaf, “we must fly. The Blackfeet are too strong for us. Are you ready?”