Timid Hare | Page 3

seemed to take on fearful shapes in the child's fancy as
the low fire, now and then, gave a sudden leap upward. Furthermore,
the tepee was empty,--no face looked out from any corner; no voice
spoke to the new-comers.

"Ugh!" The man shrugged his shoulders as he grunted in displeasure.
He was in haste to get to his own lodge where a supper of bear steak
was no doubt awaiting him.
"Where can The Stone be that she is not here, now that darkness covers
the earth?" he muttered. "And the crooked boy away too!"
The sentence was barely ended when the sound of quick, soft footsteps
could be heard outside. The Stone and her son, Black Bull, were
hurrying home. They had been gone all day, having gone to a clay pit
miles away from the village to get a certain clay for making red dye
with which The Stone wished to color some reeds for basket weaving.
Night had taken then by surprise, and wolves howling in the distance
made them travel as fast as the poor deformed youth could go.
[Illustration: The Stone and her son Black Bull were hurrying home.]
The Stone was the first of the two to enter the lodge. She was bent and
wrinkled, and her cunning, cruel eyes opened wide with surprise as she
saw her visitors.
"Ugh! what does this mean?" she asked sharply, as she looked from the
brave to the cowering child still held in his strong grip. "Are you
bringing a daughter of the pale-faces into my keeping?" She ended with
a wicked laugh.
"Not much better--it is a child of the Mandans who fell into my hands.
Better to kill her at once--a goodly scalp that!" With the words the man
pointed to his captive's long and beautiful hair.
He continued: "But Bent Horn says, No. Let The Stone take her into
her keeping. So it is then--Timid Hare, shall draw water for you and
wait upon you and your son."
Black Bull, who had followed close upon his mother, stood staring at
the captive with wild eyes. The poor fellow was small-witted, as well
as deformed. He was eighteen years old, yet he had no more
understanding than a small child. His face was not cruel like his

mother's, however. His eyes were sad and spoke of a longing for
something--but what that something was even Black Bull himself did
not understand.
As the little girl looked at him a tiny hope leaped up in her heart. "He
will not be unkind to me, at any rate," she decided. "And I am sorry for
him that he has such a mother."
Following close upon this thought came another. It was of White
Mink--dear, kind White Mink who was perhaps at this very moment
weeping over the loss of her little Swift Fawn.
"But there is no Swift Fawn--she is dead, dead, dead. There is now only
Timid Hare, the slave of a wicked woman."--The child shuddered at the
thought. She came to herself to hear The Stone saying,
"Leave her to me and I will train her in the good ways of the
Dahcotas." The man smiled grimly and went his way, and the woman
turning to her charge said: "Come, don't stand there cowering and
useless. Busy yourself. Pile wood upon the fire and put water in that
kettle. My son and I are hungry and would eat, and the meat must yet
be cooked."
With The Stone's words came a blow on Timid Hare's shoulder. It was
the first one the child had ever felt, and though it did not strike hard
upon the body, it fell with heavy weight upon her aching heart.
Stumbling about, she tried to do the old squaw's bidding, and the two
soon had the supper ready. The Stone now served her son on his side of
the fireplace, after which she herself began to eat her fill while Swift
Fawn sat huddled in a dark comer, hungrily watching.
"Take that," the woman said as she finished her meal, and she threw a
half-picked bone to the little girl. Then she got up, put away whatever
food was left from the supper, and began to spread out some buffalo
skins, first for her son's bed on his side of the tepee, then on her own
side for herself to sleep on.

"You can lie where you are," she told Timid Hare, pointing to the pile
of skins on which the child was crouching.
Soon afterwards The Stone and Black Bull were quietly sleeping, while
the little captive, with tears rolling down her cheeks, lay thinking of the
kind friends far away and of the dreadful things that might happen on
the morrow. All at once she remembered the baby's sock hidden in