Then, with the aid of his flints, he kindled a fire among some dried fir-boughs, into the light of which he bore his silent prize.
“No Injun strike Silver Rifle,” he murmured aloud. “She fell into water, and the big waves around her. Dohma follow her long time to tell her he love her; but he never catch her till—now!”
While he spoke he was unconsciously chafing the bare arms which the loose-fitting sleeves revealed, and all at once he started to his feet, and gazed with all the Indian superstition in his dark eye, upon the girl.
The eyes had opened and closed with a dreaminess not of earth.
A minute later and Dohma was at her side again.
“Silver Rifle live for Dohma!” he cried with joy. “She no dead, now. The Great Spirit has heard the prayer of the young chief!”
Once more he fell to the work of restoring the girl to consciousness with renewed vigor, and at last found her staring into his swarthy face. For several moments she seemed to be recalling certain reminiscences of the past, and then, all at once, she rose to her feet, and deliberately picked up her silver rifle.
“Silver Rifle no shoot,” said the Indian, with a smile. “Powder all wet, flints make fire, but won’t burn powder.”
She flung the rifle aside, and her hands dropped to her girdle.
“Knife gone, too,” said the Chippewa. “Silver Rifle no weapons.”