The Prairie Chief | Page 7

as if by
magic, and ere long the whole camp was busy packing up goods,
catching horses, fastening on dogs little packages suited to their size
and strength, and otherways making preparation for immediate
departure.
"Follow me," said Whitewing to Little Tim, as he turned like the rest to
obey the orders of the old chief.
"Ay, it's time to be lookin' after her," said Tim, with something like a
wink of one eye, but the Indian was too much occupied with his own
thoughts to observe the act or appreciate the allusion. He strode swiftly
through the camp.
"Well, well," soliloquised the trapper as he followed, "I niver did
expect to see Whitewing in this state o' mind. He's or'narily sitch a cool,
unexcitable man. Ah! women, you've much to answer for!"
Having thus apostrophised the sex, he hurried on in silence, leaving his
horse to the care of a youth, who also took charge of Whitewing's
steed.
Close to the outskirts of the camp stood a wigwam somewhat apart
from the rest. It belonged to Whitewing. Only two women were in it at
the time the young Indian chief approached. One was a good-looking
young girl, whose most striking feature was her large, earnest-looking,

dark eyes. The other was a wrinkled old woman, who might have been
any age between fifty and a hundred, for a life of exposure and
hardship, coupled with a somewhat delicate constitution, had dried her
up to such an extent that, when asleep, she might easily have passed for
an Egyptian mummy. One redeeming point in the poor old thing was
the fact that all the deep wrinkles in her weather-worn and
wigwam-smoked visage ran in the lines of kindliness. Her loving
character was clearly stamped upon her mahogany countenance, so that
he who ran might easily read.
With the characteristic reserve of the red man, Whitewing merely gave
the two women a slight look of recognition, which was returned with
equal quietness by the young woman, but with a marked rippling of the
wrinkles on the part of the old. There still remained a touch of anxiety
caused by the recent fight on both countenances. It was dispelled,
however, by a few words from Whitewing, who directed the younger
woman to prepare for instant flight. She acted with prompt,
unquestioning obedience, and at the same time the Indian went to work
to pack up his goods with all speech. Of course Tim lent efficient aid to
tie up the packs and prepare them for slinging on horse and dog.
"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?"
"I am always ready to do the bidding of my son," replied this pattern
mother. "But sickness has made me old before my time. I have not
strength to ride far. Manitou thinks it time for me to die.