“When I left the settlements of the white men,” continued the preacher, “my object was twofold: I wished to see Whitewing, and Little Tim, and Brighteyes, and all the other dear friends whom I had known long ago, before the snows of life’s winter had settled on my head, but my main object was to visit Rushing River, the Blackfoot chief, and carry the blessed Gospel to his people, and thus, while seeking the salvation of their souls, also bring about a reconciliation between them and their hereditary foe, Bounding Bull.”
“It’s Rushin’ River as is the enemy,” cried Little Tim, interrupting, for when his feelings were excited he was apt to become regardless of time, place, and persons, and the allusion to his son’s wife’s father—of whom he was very fond—had roused him. “Boundin’ Bull would have bin reconciled long ago if Rushin’ River would have listened to reason, for he is a Christian, though I’m bound to say he’s somethin’ of a queer one, havin’ notions of his own which it’s not easy for other folk to understand.”
“In which respect, daddy,” remarked Big Tim, using the English tongue for the moment, and allowing the smallest possible smile to play on his lips, “Bounding Bull is not unlike yourself.”
“Hold yer tongue, boy, else I’ll give you a woppin’,” said the father sternly.
“Dumb, daddy, dumb,” replied the son meekly.
It was one of the peculiarities of this father and son that they were fond of expressing their regard for each other by indulging now and then in a little very mild “chaff,” and the playful threat to give his son a “woppin’”—which in earlier years he had sometimes done with much effect—was an invariable proof that Little Tim’s spirit had been calmed, and his amiability restored.
“My white father’s intentions are good,” said Whitewing, after another pause, “and his faith is strong. It needs strong faith to believe that the man who has shot the preacher shall ever smoke the pipe of peace with Whitewing.”
“With God all things are possible,” returned the missionary. “And you must not allow enmity to rankle in your own breast, Whitewing, because of me. Besides, it was probably one of Rushing River’s braves, and not himself, who shot me. In any case they could not have known who I was.”
“I’m not so sure o’ that,” said Big Tim. “The Blackfoot reptile has a sharp eye, an’ father has told me that you knew him once when you was in these parts twenty years ago.”
“Yes, I knew him well,” returned the preacher, in a low, meditative voice. “He was quite a little boy at the time—not more than ten years of age, I should think, but unusually strong and brave. I met him when travelling alone in the woods, and it so happened that I had the good fortune to save his life by shooting a brown bear which he had wounded, and which was on the point of killing him. I dwelt with him and his people for a time, and pressed him to accept salvation through Jesus, but he refused. The Holy Spirit had not opened his eyes, yet I felt and still feel assured that that time will come. But it has not come yet, if all that I have heard of him be true. You may depend upon it, however, that he did not shoot me knowingly.”