CHAPTER III.

The shadows of night had fallen about the lonely cabin as, with a tender light in his eyes, the old trapper continued in quiet, reminiscent strain:

"Yes, stranger, my Bill hev passed in his checks. I don't talk o' him often, fur it makes my heart sore to talk o' him. But ye seem interested, and it'll not do me any harm and mebbe do ye some good.

"My Bill wus allus tryin' to help somebody. There wusn't a man in all the country that could travel over the prairie like him. He knew every coulee. He wus a splendid guide and a good one. One day one o' his comrades started off fur the Missouri in the winter when the weather was fine. He wus ridin' and he didn't expect to be long on the road, so he didn't take much grub with him.

"He'd got away just two days when it come up a terrible snow-storm. I tell ye it wur enough to freeze the hair off yer head. The folks got anxious about him, but they wur all afeard to go out in the storm.

"Bill ses to them, 'I'm goin' to find him;' but they ses, 'It's no use, ye'll get lost yerself.'

"Wall, without tellin' anybody, he started off one morning, an' it wur cold; but he never heeded that. He ses, 'I'm goin' to find him, dead or alive.' Ah, my Bill wus a brave fellow, an' as kind-hearted a fellow as ever lived.

"Two or three days went by, an' the storm kep' up, but Bill didn't turn up. The men in the Fort got anxious about him, an' so one night they talked together an' they agreed to wait another day, an' if he didn't turn up they'd send a party after him.

"It wur gettin' dark the next night when the men in the Fort see two ridin' on one horse, one in front o' the other, comin' over the prairie.

"They got out glasses an' made out that the one in front wus an Indian boy. He wus ridin' fast, an' the man behind him was muffled up an' had a cloth over his eyes.

"The men in the village went out to meet them, an' as they rode up they saw it wus Bill. He was snow-blind, an' his hands and feet wur frozen. He couldn't speak.

"The Indian boy told the men that as he wus comin' in from the Indian camp, he saw him ridin' slowly an' his reins wus thrown loose on his horse's neck, an' he wus trustin' to him to get to the Fort.

"The men in the Fort nursed him, but they thought he wouldn't get better.

"After lyin' still fur several hours, he ses, 'Is he gettin' better?'

"One o' the men sittin' beside his bed ses, 'Yes, ye're gettin' better.'

"Bill shook his head, but didn't say any thin'. After a while he cried out, 'I saved him. Is he gettin' better?'

"'Yes, yes, ye're gettin' better,' said another of the men.

"But a few minutes after Bill spoke again: 'The letter, the letter; read the letter!'

"'He is delerious, poor feller.'

"'Mebbe he had a letter from somebody,' spoke up one o' the men, an' they searched his pockets, an' sure 'nuff, found a small piece o' paper. It had some writin' on it with a pencil; something like this: 'Send some medicine as quick as ye can to save Jack's life. I left him at old Kootenay Brown's ranch. He wus nearly frozen to death when I found him.'

"The men got an Indian boy, and sent him off with medicine an' a supply o' provisions to Kootenay Brown's.

"After Bill got a little better, he told the men where he had found Jack. He had an idea of the trail he would take, and after he'd crossed St. Mary's River, the storm wus so bad that his horse wouldn't face it, so to save himself he struck toward the mountains. Wall, as he kep' travelling the storm quieted down an', wud ye believe, right ahead o' him he saw a man walkin' round an' round in a circle leadin' his horse. The snow wur deep, but he went as fast as his horse would go, an' when he reached the place he saw it wus Jack.

"Both Jack an' the horse wur snow-blind, an' they wur wanderin' round on the prairie, lost. They couldn't get away from the spot."

"Bill's horse whinnied, an' the other stopped an' then answered. The poor thing wus glad o' company. Bill spoke to Jack, but the poor fellow didn't know him. He wus out o' his mind. Bill got him on his horse, and rode on to Kootenay Brown's ranch, where they rubbed poor Jack an' put him to bed. He wus badly frozen an' they feared he wouldn't get better.

"Bill stayed fur a day an' then started fur home to get help. It wus stormin' an' he thought he might get lef', so he wrote the letter afore he started out so that Jack might have his medicine.

"It wus a long time afore Jack wus well an' come back to the Fort, an' my Bill lay four weeks in his bed; then he crawled round fur awhile, but he never got over his ride.

"Whenever anybody said anythin' to him, he would say, 'Never mind, it's all right: Jack got better.'

"All that winter an' the next summer he kep' about the Fort, coughin' bad. Ah, my heart wur sore to see him go like the snow on a summer day.

"Jack wud come over to his shanty an' do all his chores fur him, an' the two cronies would sit together fur hours.

"Jack wud look into Bill's face an' say, 'Bill, ye saved me, but lost yer own life,' an' then Bill, as best he could fur his cough, would say, 'Jack, it's all right; be a man an' help somebody else. One on us had to pass in his checks, an' it wus me this time. Yer turn will come too by an' by, mebbe afore ye think o' it. I've never done anything worth speakin' about. Ye know it's not because I wus unwillin', but, ye see, there's no chances o' doin' great things.'

"One day Jack an' Bill wur sittin' talkin', an' I went in ter see how he wus gettin' on, an' Jack wus talkin' like I never heard him afore. Ye'd a thought he wur a preacher. I think he must hev ben a good lad, fur I wusn't expectin' to hear the like.

"'Bill,' ses he, 'I don't know much about the thing good folks call religion, but I min' my old mother tellin' me, "It's not long prayers an' talks, but it's just bein' like Himsel'." That wur what she called Him. I guess He'll no judge ye for the fine things ye say, but the gran' things ye do. He saw ye that day ye saved me when I wur frozen. An' don't ye think He'll pay ye fur that? I'm sure He will. If I wur rich I'd give ye all I had, and they say He's honester than any o' us. An' that means if I canna pay ye, He will. Ye see ye must get yer pay fur doin' that gran' deed, an' I'm too poor to pay ye, so ye must look to Him for it.'

"'I think it's all right, but it's not worth much,' says Bill.

"'Worth much! It's worth all the world to me.'

"'I wonder if He'll understand us when we get yonder. Ye see, we haven't been workin' much at religion, prayin', but, Jack, many's the time I have looked up at the stars an' said to myself, "Does God think about me?" Ye see the country is so big it wouldn't be strange if He forgot me.'

"'I've heard He lived on the prairie, and that makes me feel better, fur if He ever lived among the mountains an' on the prairies He'll know our rough ways an' not be hard on us. I don't think thur wus any fine churches an' fine clothes on the prairie when He wus livin'. If thur wus no prairie an' no mountains in heaven, an' all the folks talked fine language, I couldn't feel at home. I'd be like a stranger, an' I'd want to go where I could see the buffalo an' talk some Indian once in a while.'

"'He wus a good man,' ses Jack, 'an' He wouldn't be unreasonable, an' if we didn't talk fine here He wouldn't expec' us to talk fine yonder. I don't understan' much about it, but mother told me He wus a gentleman; not a rich, proud fellow who'd pass ye by, but a man who treated all alike. He could tell a rogue in fine clothes an' a gentleman if he wus poor.'

"'I wonder, Jack, how I'll call on Him when I get yonder. Ye see, I've never been in company, an' I suppose a great many big folk will be crowdin' in the door, an' they'll be wantin' to keep me back. Will ye lift yer hat an' say, "Good day, sir," or will ye wait till He speaks to ye? I wish, Jack, ye'd go to the mission and ask the Sky Pilot that lives there; mebbe he can tell ye what to say. Mebbe he has books that'll tell ye, an' it's not the best thing to wait fur yer ticket till the last minute.'

"Before Bill could say any more Jack hobbled off, got on his horse, and rode fifteen miles to the mission house.

"The missionary wus at home, an' Jack wur surprised to see him wearin' a buckskin just like the trappers, an' he'd ben cuttin' out rails fur his fences an' had a axe in his hand. He greeted Jack civil, an' asked him what he could do for him. Jack just told him about my Bill, an' how he wanted to know what he wur to do.

"'Can ye giv' a poor fellow directions what to do after he's passed in his checks, a kind o' passport like, to cheat the old fellow when he would be bettin' on the game. Ye see, my pardner, Bill, that's nearly finished his game, an' you bet he's a good un, but he kind o' thinks he'd like to get posted afore he starts on the trip. Ye can mebbe giv' us a prayer or a few words that we wouldn't be strangers. We might fine it hard to get an interpreter. Bill is pretty good at the Indian, an' he cud giv' them some Sioux or Cree, but the man at the door wouldn't understand. I'll pay ye for yer advice, fur he saved me, an' I hate to see him go; but I'll giv' him a good send-off an' a big funeral.'

"Stranger, the missionary came right off to my Bill, an' Jack, he wur proud to have the Sky Pilot ridin' beside him, an' when they come into the Fort the men looked at the stranger goin' to Bill's shanty, an' they ses, 'He's a rustler, that, an' don't ye forget it. Ye bet yer life he'll see Bill through. He'll treat him on the square!'

"Bill's comrades wur sittin' round his bed talkin' when the prophet in buckskin, fur that wus what they called the missionary right there, come in.

"'Good day, gentlemen,' ses he, an' takes off his hat, an' then sits down by Bill an' talks to him a bit to get a wee bit acquainted. He ses:

"'Wall, friend, what can I do fur you?'

"'D'ye think a chap'll lose the trail to heaven, that's never ridden over it afore?'

"'No, he'll get there all right if he follows the directions!' ses he.

"'An' ye can giv' them to me, I reckon,' ses Bill.

"'Yes; I haven't bin there, but the Chief has, an' He said afore He went off on His last trip that He would mark the trail so that His men wouldn't get lost.'

"'Ye can tell me the marks He left. Is it a heap o' stones, or a tree blazed, or a fire burnin', so as I can see the smoke?'

"'I don't know what the marks are,' says the Sky Pilot; 'but, ye see, His ways are square, an' I know what He says is true. There's none o' the scouts ever come back to tell us. We are all tender-feet on that trail.'

"'D'ye think they could o' lost it an' got down to the camp o' the old fellow?'

"'No; but when an old-timer starts on that trail he must like the place that he doesn't come back, or mebbe there's someone keepin' him there.'

"'I guess he's struck it rich, an' he'll not come back,' says Bill, 'but how am I to know when I don't know the marks?'

"'Wall, the Chief said afore He left on that long ride o' His that He'd make the way plain so that ye couldn't mistake it, an' He never wus false. All ye hev' to do is to pledge yerself afore ye start to join His ranks, an' He'll be there to meet ye, an' He'll take care o' ye Himself an' there'll be no mistake.'

"'Are ye sure that's so?' says Bill.

"'I'm sure. I hev served the Chief for many a year, an' I tell ye He wus never false.'

"Bill turned on his bed, an' as he looked at his old comrades, he says, 'Boys, I'm goin' on the long trail. Many a time hev we ridden on the prairie, but I'm goin' alone this time.'

"The Sky Pilot went down on his knees an' he prayed. It wus a right touchin' prayer, an' the men couldn't help the tears comin' in their eyes. Jack looked at Bill, an' says he, 'Bill's sure to pull through. If anybody can find the long trail, it's Bill.'

"It wus only a little while after that, stranger, that my Bill called out, 'He's waitin' fur me! Yes, I'm comin'!' an' his head fell back. My Bill was gone. Stranger, he wus a fine man."

The old man ceased. He had told the sorrow of his life. The stranger who listened knew no word was needed to express his sympathy, so with only a kindly grasp of the old trapper's hand he turned to the couch spread for him, and before many minutes had passed the occupants of the cabin were in a sound sleep.

The shanty among the hills still stands, and is yet the home of the grey-haired old-timer. As he sits at his doorway in the evening watching the shadows lengthen into night, memory often carries him back to the days when "my Bill" was the pride of his heart.

THE SPIRIT GUIDE.

There was a gay company assembled in the lodge of Eagle Rib, engaged in the pleasant pastime of tea-drinking and story-telling. The old chief had been successful in his late hunting expeditions, and from his sale of robes to the Indian traders a good supply of provisions had been brought to his lodge. A special invitation had been given to the leading members of the camp to attend the feast, and a large number had assembled to partake of the bounty in store. Every available pot and pan had been brought into requisition, and around the blazing lodge fire there stood vessels filled with buffalo meat, berries cooked in fat, and tea. The invited guests did full justice to the delicacies, both eating and drinking heartily. The pipe of peace was then passed around, and comments were freely made upon the conduct of those present who had been unfortunate in their hunting adventures. The stolid countenances of the Indians relaxed, and seriousness at times gave place to laughter loud and prolonged, as one after another related some story of hunting, love or war. The old men fought anew their battles of former years, and as the feast proceeded, a spirit of enthusiasm was begotten which infused itself into the heart of every individual present.

An interested listener half reclined with his head and shoulders on a native reed pillow; but his face bore a stern expression, showing no sign of participation in the others' merriment, as if the perils and victories of his fellows were nothing to him. Although apparently heedless of his surroundings, yet he was none the less a partaker of their pleasure. This taciturn individual was Medicine Runner, a famous chief of the Blackfoot Indians. Tall, stern and dignified, he commanded the respect of all, and was honored with the position of war chief of the tribe. Though his hair was turning grey, there were no signs of mental or physical decay. When he addressed his people on any subject every tongue was silent, all ears were opened to catch the words of the illustrious chief. He was a true orator, sparing in words, but every sentence was full of meaning; and though his language was couched in nature's garb, not even the Indian trader could mistake its full import. Many times he had led his warriors to victory when contending with Cree, Crow or Sioux Indians. They loved and honored him, while his enemies hated the name he bore. He lay for some time thus, a silent spectator of the joys of his companions. Then his eyes brightened, and he raised himself from his reclining position as if about to speak. The host and his guests knew at once the meaning of the change, and waited in respectful silence, anxious to hear what the chief had to say.

"Twenty-five winters have passed away," said he, "since a party of Sioux warriors entered our camp and stole a large number of horses. I was young and active then, and without any loss of time I called my warriors together that we might consult as to what was best to be done. After much deliberation at last I told them that I had prayed about the matter and felt it to be my duty to follow our enemies, taking another chief with me, while the warriors who remained in the camp were to be prepared for any sudden attack from the tribes who might be in our vicinity. I chose Three Bulls, who was at that time called Medicine Runner, to go with me on the expedition. We went out to the rock on the hill and made sacrifices and prayers. I prayed to my god for guidance, protection, and victory, and as I lay in my lodge at night, the god came to me in a vision, and told me to go, assuring me of an answer to my prayers. We had a war dance and feast, painted our bodies and our horses with war paint, and then set out on our journey south. We had gone but a little way when I got off my horse and prayed again. I vowed that if successful and I was permitted to return I should sacrifice myself at the next sun dance.

"Four days we rode and saw not any signs of our foes, but as evening drew near on the fifth day we were pacing slowly on the plains when we came to the brow of a hill, and there right at our feet was a camp of Sioux Indians, numbering three hundred lodges. Our hearts beat fast when we saw so many lodges congregated together, and my companion expressed his determination to return that night, as it was impossible to do anything against such a strong foe. I remembered my prayers and my vow, and resolved to remain, though at the same time urging my companion to go home and to take my horse with him. He begged me not to throw away my life, but to accompany him and to bring back with us a large number of our warriors to help in slaying all the Sioux Indians. I told him I dare not consent, as my guardian spirit was driving me onward and I felt sure of victory, though alone.

"Three Bulls bade me a sad farewell, and taking my horse with him he rode away quickly in the direction of our camp.

"Again I prayed and resolved upon action. It was a dark night, and thus highly favored I waited until the middle of the night, that all the people might be asleep, watching meanwhile as closely as I could and studying the lodges in the camp. The time had come. I descended and entered the camp stealthily and unseen. Outside of a chief's lodge there was fastened a fine horse, a good buffalo runner, and this lodge I resolved to enter, examining my gun and knife to see that they were all right. I then peered into the lodge and saw the chief and his family quietly sleeping. Drawing the door gently back I went inside. A few dying embers lay upon the fire, and beside it stood a pot of meat. Feeling hungry I soon disposed of some of the food. I then took off one of my moccasins and left it that they might know an enemy had been there. Leaving the lodge as quietly as I entered, it was only the work of a minute to cut the horse loose, jump on his back and depart. Conscious of having gained the victory, and feeling safe on the back of such a fine animal, I could not refrain from uttering the war-whoop as I was leaving the camp. The greatest excitement prevailed when they heard it, and I knew that I would soon be pursued. They had heard the sound of the horse's hoofs, for presently several Sioux were on my track, yelling and beating their horses to increase their speed. I had nothing to fear, for a good horse and a good start were in my favor. Most of my pursuers gave up the chase, and finally I could hear distinctly the sounds of the hoofs of but two horses following. Right ahead in the darkness I could hear the sound of rushing waters. I hastened on. Plunging into the foaming waters I crossed the stream safely and turned suddenly around as I reached the bank. Springing from my horse I waited for my pursuers, and as they approached levelled my gun and shot the leader. Before the other could escape by advance or retreat I brought him to the ground with another bullet. Victory was assuredly mine, for now two scalps were fastened to my belt, and I rejoiced that full compensation had been made for the depredations of our enemies."

"Homeward I sped, resting occasionally to give my horse time to recover his breath and refresh himself a little. When I reached our camp I heard the women wailing for me as one dead, for they had given up all hopes of my safety, but when the people saw my approach and the scalps by my side their sorrow was changed to songs of rejoicing. A great feast and scalp dance were held. Three Bulls made a long speech exalting my heroism, and ended by giving me his name of Medicine Runner, which he then bore, and which I have since borne until this day."

The chief had scarcely finished his story when a young man entered named Running Wolf. He was tall, slim, and of noble aspect, showing his relationship to the bravest of the tribe. He had a careworn appearance and was evidently suffering keenly from physical exhaustion; still a faint smile played upon his features and his eyes glistened with unusual brightness. Five days previous, this young man had gone from his lodge on an errand of some importance, as was evident by the determination which was expressed in the firmly compressed lips and the look of daring in his eye. For some time he had been very serious, and it had been remarked by some of the aged people that he seemed to be holding communion with the spirits. He withdrew within himself, saying little but thinking much, and the young man who formerly had been so full of merriment and delighted in all the amusements of the camp, had become suddenly transformed into a sedate man, almost prophetic in his looks. Without informing anyone of his intentions he had departed from his lodge, going rapidly toward the hills, apparently hoping to meet someone or determined to do some work. He walked quickly, shunning the presence of his companions, heeding not the riders who were driving herds of horses, and caring not for the scenes which always delighted him.

Old and young who saw him travelling at such a rapid pace across the prairie kept out of his way, for it was evident to their eyes that a supernatural power was guiding him. For many hours he travelled without halting, his eyes fastened on the ground, but with a holy purpose in his heart. Into one of the deep ravines he entered, and far into its recesses he travelled, where seldom penetrated the eyes of man, haunted as the Indians believed it to be by spirits of the dead, who possessed the power of inflicting injury upon the living.

It was in this community of spirits that Running Wolf found the resort which his soul longed for, its gloomy shades, rugged, tall rocks and scanty vegetation agreeing with the state of his soul. It was the home of the buzzard, coyote and eagle. Loveliness there was none, and as a resting place for man, no spot on earth could have been found more uninviting. This was the place, however, which seemed pleasing to the spirit of the young man, and for a few moments, although exhausted and sad, a gleam of satisfaction shone from his countenance. He fell upon his face kissing the ground, and in accents of tenderness cried, "My mother!" He lay upon the sod for a long time, fatigued with his journey and the physical exhaustion arising from nervous excitement, but at length arose, gathered his blanket upon his left arm, and began pacing to and fro, praying earnestly to the Great Sun for the revelation of himself.

Alone upon the hills and in the deep recesses of the ravines he wandered, praying and fasting, allowing nothing to pass his lips but a little water. Earnest, solemn and prolonged was his communion with the Great Power which overshadowed him, and the more keenly he felt this invisible presence the more fervently he prayed and longed for the fulfilment of his vows. Bright were his hopes, for he had implicit faith in the spiritual influences with which he was surrounded.

For days and nights the young man wandered alone, his voice heard by none save the spirits, the birds and the animals. At last he fell to the ground worn out with his devotions, and as he lay in a half-conscious state pleasant dreams flitted through his brain. The air was filled with happy voices. Angel attendants came to minister to him. Earth was no longer a weary place to live in, but the songs of joyous hearts came to him in all their sweetness, more pleasing than he had ever heard, and as he sang in unison with them, his heart was filled with joy. How long this continued he never knew, but in the midst of it all there came a voice assuring him of peace, the acceptance of his vows and prayers, and the gift of a Guide and spiritual Friend. The blessed vision rested on his soul as a rich benediction; and in this pleasant frame of mind he awoke. As he raised himself there came running toward him a small ground squirrel. This he seized instantly, and as he held the timid animal in his hand he remembered that this was the visitor named in his vision which would come to him, and within whose body would dwell the Spirit which was given him as a guide through life. As he held it, gently he drew it toward his bosom, and there nestling with fear it suddenly ceased breathing. His visitor was dead!

His heart was moved with sorrow; but he learned by the keen spiritual perception which had been given him that the Spirit Guide needed not a living agent wherein to dwell, for He could give animation if that were required.

Quietly and with reverence he laid the little thing upon the ground; tears filled his eyes. He prayed anew for guidance and strength, and as he prayed he took his knife and removed the skin of his little visitor and reverently preserved it.

A gentle voice whispered to him that the vision was ended. So casting a few quick glances around, he turned homeward, tired and footsore, but very happy.

A long journey lay before him, and in his fainting condition he could walk but feebly, yet so strong was his spirit that it overcame his physical weakness and enabled him to speed across the plains. New life had been granted him, and a companion of the spirits was now beside him wherever he went. As he drew near to the camp the dwellers fled at his approach. They beheld something supernatural in his manner which made them afraid. He entered the lodge of Eagle Rib as Medicine Runner finished his story, and without speaking a word sought his accustomed couch.

One by one the visitors left, impressed with the fact that some prophetic power had fallen upon the young man, and they dreaded contact with spiritual visitants.

These people are often called savages by members of the white race, yet they have been taught the greatest respect for all forms of religion, recognizing these forms as methods by which men approach the Supreme Power, hence their reverential attitude when the young man came into the lodge. In a few moments all the visitors had gone, and there remained only Eagle Rib and his family alone with Running Wolf.

He slept many hours, and then awaking fully refreshed, he partook of food, but said little to anyone. Becoming much reserved, not because of his superior position or knowledge, but rather because of the consciousness of this invisible companion, Running Wolf increased in favor with all the people. Gentle, sober and true, he won the hearts of the young men and maidens, who of all the natives of the lodges were most exacting.

A few uneventful years passed by, and the young man stood at the head of the young warriors of the camp, a recognized leader, well qualified to direct and destined to become victorious over every foe. His words were few, but when he spoke his judgment seldom erred, and his decision always carried away all opposition. Clothed with power and wisdom he had nothing to fear from any antagonist, and still he seemed unhappy. A restlessness of spirit appeared suddenly to take possession of him, compelling him to depart from the peace and happiness of the camp.

One evening, while sitting in the lodge, surrounded by his friends, without any word of warning or expression of any kind, he arose and departed, no one daring to follow, and no one asking the cause of his action.

The sun sank behind the Rocky Mountains, and the prairie was soon enveloped in darkness, but the young man heeded not the deepening shadow; he was not afraid. He wandered far from the camp and entered the forest unnoticed and unpursued. Straight as an arrow he went onward until he came to the foot of a giant tree, and kneeling upon his knees, he breathed out a prayer, simple, majestic and brief.

Drawing his knife from its sheath, he began to dig vigorously under the sod, never resting in his eager search for some hidden prize. Presently from the depths of the soil he brought forth a tender rootlet, upon which he gazed with admiration, hugging it closely to his bosom as a treasure of rare value.

Then, quietly retracing his steps, he soon found rest in the lodge. No questions were asked, and few indeed were the words spoken, his reticent manner preventing any undue familiarity.

A few nights passed by and a messenger came to the lodge in deep sorrow, to inform Running Wolf that the daughter of Mastwena was very sick. Without manifesting any surprise, Running Wolf arose, went direct to the lodge of his friend where the sick child lay, and bending gently over her, he looked into the face of the little one. A gleam of satisfaction passed over his countenance. She was very sick, but not beyond hope of recovery.

The medicine drums were brought down and beaten to call to his aid the spirits which flitted from tree to tree and from stone to stone outside the lodge. The medicine song was chanted by all the members of the family, and Running Wolf sang vigorously as he swayed his body to and fro in an excited manner.

As he sang and prayed he drew from his medicine bag a piece of root, which he broke, and placing it in a vessel with a small quantity of oil, stirred it well. As he muttered words of import which acted as a charm to aid the medicine in performing its desired end, he gave it to the feverish child with the gentleness of a woman.

As the little one drank the medicine, he again repeated the strange words which had fallen from his lips, and although misunderstood by the members of the family, a shudder ran through the company, for they felt the sacred power which accompanied the casting out of the evil spirit which had taken possession of the child.

The child lay motionless for a few moments as Running Wolf prayed over her, and then a sudden change took place, the whole physical frame being strangely contorted through pain, the agony being almost unbearable. Heavy drops of sweat stood upon the child's forehead and rolled off her body, until as the agony increased and the culminating point seemed to be reached, she uttered a piercing cry, and then fell back motionless upon her earthen couch.

Deep slumber fell upon her, and she lay asleep for hours as if under the influence of a gentle opiate, no one daring to arouse her, or caring to intrude upon the territory of the home of the spirits.

As the sun arose in his splendor behind the hills which lay across the prairie, the Indian maiden opened her eyes, refreshed with her slumbers, free from pain and the disease overcome. In a few days she was running with her companions as strong and merry as she had ever been.

The fame of Running Wolf was spreading fast and was not confined to his own tribe, and had he been a man of ordinary ability he would no doubt have become elated over his success. Keeping his own counsel he still felt humble, for he depended solely for his success on the ministrations of the Spirit Guide and the wondrous revelations which were frequently made to him.

Many uneventful days were passed in the camp, the severe illness of a friend or a skirmish with some neighboring tribe alone breaking the monotony.

No counsel was more eagerly sought in the gatherings of the chiefs, and there was no chief in greater demand as arbitrator in difficulties than Running Wolf.

He was loved for his wisdom, kindness and unassuming manner. The children listened to his stories as he sat in his lodge surrounded by the youth of the camp, who became so docile under his influence that with a single wave of his hand they quietly departed. Frequently they gathered around his lodge fire, and when the shadows of evening fell, they ran homeward to repeat the wonderful stories he had told them. Many a needless war was averted by his cool judgment and courage.

Late in the fall of the year this wise counsellor stood at his lodge door, and called aloud for his friends to attend a feast which he had made. A large company assembled to do honor to their friend. As they sat around in his spacious lodge, entertained by the conversation of the most notable men of the tribe, the evening passed away pleasantly. Running Wolf led off in the conversation late in the evening, and as he spoke in a tone of gravity, yet with a spirit of deep feeling, every ear listened and every heart beat in sympathy with the sentiments expressed. The orator proceeded to relate the history of the tribe, the story of its conquests, the records of the noble deeds of its great men, the advent of the white race and the present condition of the Indians. He depicted the future in dark colors, the gradual decay of the red men, the diseases and debauchery of the people, the corruption of the Indian politicians and the utter overthrow of the native religion. He counselled them to accept of the glory of the coming day when the red men would mingle with the white race, accepting their teachings and civilizations and finding therein peace, plenty and contentment. His voice faltered, and their hearts grew sad as he told them he would always remain with them to cheer them with his presence and encourage them by putting wise thoughts into their hearts; and he would touch the hearts of the white men, so that more tenderly than ever would they treat their brothers in red.

With downcast countenances they left his lodge and sought repose, although few of them slept because of the strange visions of the future his words had awakened in their minds.

Upon the following day a strange rumor spread rapidly over the camp that Running Wolf had not been seen after his great feast with the chiefs. Forebodings of dark destiny filled the minds of the people, and sorrow was depicted on every countenance. Women and children wept, and the men groaned in spirit, heavy with foreboding fears.

Running Wolf's favorite horse stood at the lodge door, his gun and military habiliments lay in their accustomed place, but the wise man was gone. A few footprints were seen leading out towards the prairie in the direction of the mountains, but after following them a short distance all traces of them were lost. Far and near they sought him but found him not.

Then the chiefs recalled the sadness of their hearts when he assured them he would always abide with them, encouraging their hearts and subduing their enemies. They now believe that he is true to his predictions, and that he still presides over them in a higher degree as chief among the spirits. Yet they cannot help going out every day to look across the prairie for the return of Running Wolf.

Some day he may return, but not as we look for him. As the guardian spirit of the tribe he still maintains his ascendancy over the people, and with greater power than ever he waits upon them in their counsels and religious feasts, no longer guided by the spirits, but himself a seer among the gods.

ALAHCASLA.

Namukta, the aged chief, was dying. As he lay on his earthen bed in the buffalo-skin lodge, friends gathered in and now sat near, talking in low tones. While the old man's faltering voice rose and anon fell, in the delirious utterances of a fevered brain, they recounted his deeds of bravery and recalled his wise counsels.

Namukta was a great chief, a warrior who could tell more thrilling tales of encounters with the enemies of his tribe than any other among the lodges, and the young men had listened and had caught from his oft-repeated words the spirit of the warrior before they went upon the war-path. He was telling now of by-gone battles in the south, of victories won and scalp-locks taken from the foe; but his mind wandered and there was no connection in the talk.

Presently he ceased, and every eye was turned toward his couch. He was still for a few moments, and the people waited. Then the dying chief raised himself on his bed and called in clear, peremptory tones, "Isota! Isota! Isota!"

A young girl, fairer than any of the other maidens in the camp, yet dressed as one of them, rose from the buffalo-skin where she had been reclining, and crept nearer to the old chief's side.

"I am here, my father." But the chief made no reply. His ears were closed to the voice he loved, and the girl sighed as she resumed her seat.

Again he raised his voice and called aloud. "Isota! Isota! There they come! Lie still!"

He was fighting over again one of the battles of the past. In broken, disjointed sentences, bit by bit, Isota and the friends who were with him in the lodge heard the story told, which, put together, was something as follows:

"That was a hard time. It was the year of the rabbits. We had gone away to the east to hunt the deer, and we intended to take some horses from the Chippewas. Our young men had told us the Chippewas had some fine horses that they had taken from the white men. It was a long journey, but it was fine weather, and we had plenty of feed for our horses. When we reached the forests we saw tracks of the Chippewas. We kept a sharp lookout for our enemy.

"Early one morning we saw smoke from their camp-fires. We made ready to attack them; we would rush upon them unawares and defeat them. We sent out two of our young men, who brought back word that there were fifty lodges and the men were well armed. We consulted together, for it was no easy task to fight with so many, but we were ready and in good trim for fighting. We sent our young men again at night, and when they got back they reported that there were some fine horses in the camp, but some of the men were out hunting. We made up our minds to attack the camp early the next morning.

"There was not much sleep for us that night; we were too near the camp of our enemy. There were only twenty-five of our warriors, but they were all good men who had won many battles.

"Long before the sun was up we started for the camp, travelling quietly, and when we reached the camp we made a dash for the horses and fired into some of the lodges. The enemy rushed out, the men fighting and the women and children screaming. Five of the Blackfeet were killed, but we had ten scalps and thirty horses. As we were leaving the camp I saw a little pale-face sitting at the door of one of the lodges crying. I rushed to her quickly, picked her up and placed her on my saddle. The Chippewas were beaten and we did not care to fight any more. We had taken the scalps and the horses and the little pale-face. That was a great fight. I had the best part of it. You know my little pale-face; I called her Isota."

Isota listened, her head resting on her hand. She remembered being in the camp of another tribe of Indians, but who they were or where they came from or dwelt she knew not.

Namukta had ever treated the pale-face as a princess, a child of the gods, for had not the gods blessed his people ever since she had been in his lodge? The men had not gone so frequently upon the war-path, there was not so much sickness or quarrelling in the camps. The maidens loved her because she was ever ready to help them; she had the finest skins for her dresses, and bear's claws and elk teeth were used in plenty to decorate the lovely Isota.

The chiefs consulted her on matters affecting their bands of people, and wondered at her wisdom. Her gentle manner, her calm dignity and queenly carriage impressed them with a sense of superiority. They believed she was possessed of many secrets not known by the medicine-men, and this added to her influence over the tribe.

Namukta guarded his treasure carefully, and there was nothing too valuable to be given to his Indian princess. And now Isota had tended him in his sickness, and even the eldest of his wives had not objected to this usurpation of her rights.

There was one other who loved the maiden as fondly as Namukta. Alahcasla had been taken by the Blackfeet during one of their raids upon some of the numerous tribes of British Columbia, and because Namukta was the war chief he had dwelt in his lodge. Alahcasla was tall and handsome, and of an intelligent countenance. He had played with Isota, grown up with her, and loved her better than all the world beside. Once when Isota had been attacked by a bear, his trusty rifle had pierced the brain of the savage animal and saved the girl's life.

Namukta, after the relation of the story of his capture of Isota, lay for several days unconscious, but when he drew near the border of the spirit-land he awoke, conscious though very weak. He summoned all the minor chiefs to his lodge, and divided his property among his friends. His favorite horse was given to Isota, and the next in value to Alahcasla. Then turning to the peace chief he said:

"And now I am going to the sand hills and I leave Isota and Alahcasla to protect the interests of our people. They cannot be chiefs, but they are greater than all the chiefs and medicine-men. If you consult them and follow their counsels you will never be led astray. Give them one of the best lodges, let them have a portion of all the game you kill, never go to war without seeking their advice, and you will become prosperous and happy. Good-bye. I am going. Bury me as an Indian warrior. I have done."

Namukta died and was buried with all the rites of his people, who mourned for him many days. His last instructions were obeyed, and while they followed the counsels of Alahcasla and Isota the tribe was prosperous.

Twelve months passed and some of the women saw that Isota's cheeks had lost their color; they talked of it among themselves, but said no word to Isota. Then one morning when the chiefs went to the lodge of their leader they found the widows and children of the camp weeping. Alahcasla and Isota were no longer in the lodge. No one had seen them since the night before, and the fear in their hearts was that their enemies had stolen Isota, and because of his love for her Alahcasla had followed. The tribe had heard of rumors among the Crow Indians and about the camp-fires of the Gros Ventres, that it would be a good thing if they could secure Isota, the white leader, that prosperity might come to their lodges as it had to Namukta, the old chief, and his people.

The chiefs held a consultation, and it was decided that runners should be sent out to the territories of the hostile Indians, and learn by stealth the fate of their princess.

Far and wide they went, but could find no trace of Isota. The people grieved, many of the children sickened and died, the buffalo disappeared and the warriors sat around in the lodges idle and dispirited.

Isota had departed and her people were to know her no more.

* * * * *

"You bet yer life she's a beauty, an' don't ye forget it. She's no Injun, that. She's got queer tastes to be the wife o' an Injun, but he's a smart un, none o' yer common prairie Injuns."

Such at all events was Dutch Fred's opinion. A day or two before two travellers, an Indian and a young woman of fair complexion, had arrived at the ranch and been treated with more than the usual hospitality by the head man. They had not been very communicative, and after resting for two days had ridden away north in the direction of the line of white settlements. This and the superior appearance of the pair had excited a good deal of curiosity, and called forth the above expression of opinion.

Dutch Fred was right. Isota and Alahcasla were no common Indians. Namukta's story of how Isota had been brought to his lodge had sunk into the girl's heart, and as Alahcasla loved her better than himself, he was helping her to solve the mystery, although he knew that every day which brought her nearer to her own people took her farther from him and his love.

They had travelled many weary miles before they reached the Thunder Bay district. When Isota stood upon the shore of the great lake some memory was stirred within her, and a word long forgotten seemed to leap once more into life.

She knew that she had before stood beside a great sheet of water like this. Where was it? She could not tell. In vain she sought to recall something more definite than the vague sense of having seen broad sparkling waters such as this. She could not, but the train was set alight and here a word was to supply the needed clue--Huron!

They stayed that night with a band of Chippewa Indians who were camped on the shores, and as Isota lay in the wigwam weary and sad she heard the story of an old chief whom his people loved; how he had grieved for and sought a pale-faced child that had been stolen. She had been entrusted to his keeping by the chief of another band, and while he was absent on a hunting expedition she had been carried away by a marauding band of Blackfeet.

Isota could not understand at first, but a long illness and the care bestowed upon her by the wife of the Chippewa chief gave her time to learn their language. It seemed to come back to her as a forgotten tongue.

When the sickness left her, Alahcasla, who had waited and watched beside her faithfully, brought the horses to the lodge door, and together they set out once more to reach the Huron country.

After many days of weary travel the shining waters of the lake lay before them. They had passed few settlements, but now the country was more cleared, and as the tall Indian and the beautiful Isota entered the long, straggling street of the pioneer towns they attracted considerable attention. Unused to the prying eyes and rude stare of ill-bred curiosity, Isota held herself more erect and Alahcasla drew closer to her side. During their stay in one of these frontier towns Isota's horse had sickened and died, and Alahcasla had put the girl upon his and walked by her side.

They were often faint for food and from weariness; they were not familiar with the ways of the white people, and did not know that they must ask for what they needed. It was not the Indian custom to ask for the hospitality that it was considered a privilege to be allowed to offer to the stranger within their lodges.

But the talk of the people in the streets had revived another link in the chain of Isota's memory of the past.

She heard the children call "Mother!" and immediately she knew the word had once been familiar to her lips. With these words "Huron" and "Mother" as talismans, the pair went on their way.

* * * * *

In one of the larger towns on the shore of Lake Huron, a crowd had gathered around two figures whose appearance was evidently causing considerable interest. Travel-stained, their once handsome dress of finely tanned and handsomely embroidered deerskin with beaded ornaments worn and discolored, Alahcasla stood, resentment in his eye and indignation expressed in every line of his tall, commanding figure, sternly eyeing the gaping crowd, while Isota leaned against the wall of the house, her whole attitude telling of weariness and despair. Her lips were parched and dry, yet they still could utter the words, "Huron," "Mother!"

Was there no one to respond; none to answer her?

Presently a woman better dressed than the majority among the crowd drew near, and with the kindliness of a heart long softened by sorrow, and one which found relief only in thought for others, she stayed to ask the cause of the gathering there.

"Poor things," she said, as the crowd parted and her eyes fell on the strange group; "they are surely strangers here, and their proud bearing in such surroundings would lead one to suppose they are no common people."

Isota looked into the kind grey eyes, and though despair of ever being understood had filled her heart, she uttered once again the words, "Huron," "Mother!"

A woman's sympathy and love for another had led her to stay her steps and ask the cause of the gathering crowd, and now an answering echo in her heart, a sorrow long borne, a wound made and never healed, replied. Isota and Alahcasla were taken home, the one to her mother's arms, the other to seal with his death the sacrifice of his love.

The long strain, the hardships of the journey from which he had shielded Isota, and the confinement of living in a house and amid crowded streets where his free spirit could not breathe, was more than the child of the mountains and plain could bear.

Isota tended him faithfully and closed his eyes in death. Loving hands laid him to rest in the beautiful cemetery just outside the town. A simple stone was set up, bearing the names "Alahcasla and Isota," thus linking the living with the dead, and keeping alive the memory of the one who had sacrificed his own happiness that the woman he loved might be restored to her people.

THE HIDDEN TREASURE.

Snow had fallen thick and fast during the night, and as we looked out over the prairie and saw it still being driven in long rolling drifts by the strong western wind, we shuddered and turned again gratefully to the fire within the house.

The cold was so intense on that winter morning that we were slow in getting out to our daily duties, a dilatoriness which we shared with our fellow-citizens of the frontier town. When late during the day we strolled down the street, we were struck by a change in the appearance of what had been one of the dreariest, most desolate and dilapidated houses in the place. The house had been vacant for some time, but there was on the morning of which we speak unmistakable evidence of life within its roughly built walls.

In the early spring three young men had paid our town a visit. They did not remain long; apparently they were not favorably impressed with its appearance or with the manner of its citizens. Our people were certainly not of a style to attract, nor did they on their part care for the presence of strangers. This peculiarity probably arose from the fact that respectable strangers seldom found their way there, and the townsmen had lost all desire to cultivate the acquaintance of any but those who belonged to the community. Being, as we have said, a frontier town, situated not far from the international boundary line, many fugitives from justice had sought refuge among us, and the presence of such an element was not conducive to the growth of the town, either socially or commercially. The shanties which these rough characters had made their homes were, during the long winter nights, veritable pandemoniums, and the looks and behavior of their occupants were sufficient to deter any honest young man from taking up residence among us. Many of the houses, like that we have described, had fallen into a dilapidated condition; log buildings were falling to pieces, while in many of them factory cotton stretched over the sashes was the substitute for glass long since broken, or possibly never inserted. The roadways, too, were in a wretched condition, even on the one street the town could boast of.

It was little wonder, therefore, that the young men referred to had made so short a stay in the town. Following the river, and choosing a beautiful site on its banks farther north, they had pitched their buffalo-skin lodge, and there they had lived for the months preceding our story, cutting cord-wood, fishing and shooting.

We had seen so little of these men that we did not at first connect them with the altered appearance of the old shanty on this bitter winter morning. In a town like ours, the inhabitants of which were composed of such a heterogeneous mixture of men and manners, we did not ask many questions of who or what a man was, unless there appeared to be some good cause for such inquiries. It was only after we recognized in two of the young men the strangers who had passed through the town in the early spring, that the surmise occurred to us that the third might be the inmate of the old house.

We learned that the poor fellow had been ill for some time, and as he grew worse and the weather more severe, his companions had decided to bring him into the town, and see if any better help could not be procured for him than they could give in their camp.

The hearts of the rough and even the most wicked men in the West beat tenderly for the helpless, and it is well known that many of the most hardened among them will give their last cent, aye, even their last crust, to aid such among them as are rendered helpless by accident, misfortune or disease. This characteristic trait of the old-timer was known to these strangers, and their confidence in the manifestation of sympathy for their friend was not misplaced. They had brought the sick man into town upon a rudely-made sled, taking the precaution to wrap him warmly in buffalo robe and blanket, that he might be protected from the cold. The journey over the smooth snow had been safely accomplished, but the bed they found in the rough shanty was of the barest description. They had, however, made the best they could of it. A curtain over the windows, the floor well swept, and the simple furniture, consisting of the merest necessaries, gave it at least a habitable appearance. Here his friends left him.

Learning the poor man was alone, we went to see him. At first, although it was evident he was anxious for sympathy and help, he regarded us with suspicion. The water left by his bedside was frozen in the cup, the fire had gone out, and the cold wind seemed to find its way through every crack and crevice in the rude log walls. The man was pale and emaciated, and, when spoken to, his replies were interrupted by the difficulty of breathing and pain of body.

"You have been sick for some time?" we asked.

"Yes--some--weeks."

"Where is your home?'

"In--Oregon."

"Are your parents living?"

"Yes."

"Have you any money?" A quick glance of suspicion was the only reply to this last question. We hastened to explain that we had no desire for his money, and our question was prompted only by a wish to help him.

"We have come to do what we can for you, and if you have no money, we can get some and use it for you, and see that you want for nothing."

"I guess--I'm not--down--to bed-rock--yet," was the muttered reply.

"Will you tell us your name?" we asked.

"Jerry--Lindley."

We needed no deep knowledge of the man to recognize that this was not his true name. We were not unprepared for it. Many of the old-timers had several, and it was not until we became intimate with them that we learned their true names.

We went again many times to see Jerry, and always found him alone. It seemed strange that his companions should desert him, and we also noticed that the old-timers avoided his shanty. They were not as ready to afford him the aid usually given to the lonely and helpless, whose lot it was to be among them. Jerry was a castaway--ostracized by whiskey-traders and gamblers. Why or wherefore we failed to learn.

The weather grew colder, the sick man every day worse, and at last it became absolutely necessary to remove him to some warmer shelter than the old shanty. There was in the town an old man who was known by the name of Kamusi, a genuine specimen of the "old-timer." He was rough and ready in language and manners, drank freely and gambled and grumbled continually, yet in all the country there was not a more tender-hearted man. He had an Indian wife and several half-breed children, whom he loved intensely and swore at incessantly. He led a careless, easy-going and, in some respects, a wild life, yet he was the most liberal giver to the Indian school and mission church. The log building, consisting of the kitchen, where Ling, the Chinaman, cooked, a small dining-room, a billiard and bar-room, which represented the hotel in the town, was owned and kept by Kamusi. This rough old man offered to take Jerry in and care for him free of expense.

We carried the sick man on a blanket, and laid him on an old mattress in the corner of the billiard-room. There, amid the strange surroundings of men and women, Indians, Mounted Police, half-breeds, traders, cowboys, and rough settlers, the sick man lay slowly dying. We went to see him frequently, and endeavored to lead his thoughts upward to higher things. The men at the billiard table, as we talked, would often lower their voices or play more quietly in deference to our presence, or it might be to the near approach of the deepening shadow of the death-angel's wings; and eager as they were over the games or the sums at stake, they gave many a thought to the dying man so near to them.

We had succeeded in getting a doctor to look at him, but he could do no more than repeat our own opinion that the man had not long to live. As we tried to tell him of the way of peace, and prayed, our hands resting on the side of the billiard table, the gamesters ceased, doffed their hats, and let their cues rest on the floor. Such a prayer-meeting, in such a place and with such a congregation, could not but leave abiding memories in many hearts, and, we trust, led some to better living.

A few days before his death one of Jerry's old comrades returned, and by his devoted attention and continuous watch over the dying man aroused the suspicions of some of the men who frequented the billiard-room. Rumors were soon floating about that Jerry was known to have possessed several hundred dollars. No one knew where it was hidden, and the general opinion was that Tom Hastings was after no good.

One night just before Jerry died, and after a draught had been given him to ease the pain he was suffering, he seemed anxious to communicate some intelligence. Unable to speak, he traced, with feeble, trembling fingers, some straggling characters on the wall against which he lay. We could not decipher their meaning, but the men standing near seemed to understand. Presently two of them mounted their horses and rode out of the town.

Jerry died the next day, and we buried him on the prairie. No one, not even his two "pals," knew or could tell where Jerry came from. We made some inquiries, but failed to find any of his relatives or obtain information of where his parents lived. We knew no more about him than what he had told us himself in answer to our first questions.

Some days after his companion's death, Tom Hastings went south with an ox-train. Before he left he paid all who had incurred any expense in befriending the sick man. Pete Rowley, the third of the trio, remained in the country and seemed to prosper for a time. He never worked, but was always well dressed and appeared to have all the money he required. After hovering about the billiard tables for several months he disappeared. No one cared to ask where he had gone.

What the writing on the wall betrayed, who had found the treasure whose hiding-place Jerry's trembling hand had described, we never knew; but we often thought that if wrong had been done by any or either of his friends, a day of retribution would surely come to the one who had acquired it, and the mystery surrounding it would then be fully revealed.

THE WHITE MAN'S BRIDE.

The Blood Indian camp was pitched on one of the bottoms of the Kootenay River, and with its two hundred or more lodges formed a picturesque group, the painted buffalo-skins of the lodges and the gay attire of the numerous Indians who rode in and out among them and on the surrounding prairie, making a brilliant and attractive scene.

There was unusual excitement in the camp on the evening on which our story opens. This excitement was most noticeable among the female portion of it, and was caused by the arrival of Major Brown, an Englishman, and a fine specimen of that educated class of his countrymen who, being possessed of private means, are able to indulge their desire of change and adventure. White men had visited the camp before; some had even made their homes for a few months among the tribe, but never at any time had so much interest and curiosity been excited, or so many questioning glances been exchanged between the women as on the arrival of this particular Englishman.

Major Brown's personal appearance was doubtless a sufficient reason for the unwonted stir among the women, especially in the lodges where the younger ones dwelt. He certainly was a handsome man, and, in conscious indifference to its effect, bore himself in a dignified manner among the people. Belonging to an old family of noble lineage, his youth had been spent in one of the best public schools; two years of hard work at Oxford had followed, and the foundation of a good education laid. Unable, owing to a lack of fortune, to maintain the position his birth and education had entitled him to in the Old World, he determined at the close of the two years' residence in the University to seek a home where he might in a short time earn sufficient to enable him to start a good business in England, and eventually become one of her merchant princes. His friends tried to dissuade him from carrying out this plan, but without success. He had heard of the Indians, had read much of the sport to be had, of the freedom of the life in the north-western part of Canada, and the conditions of existence appeared so fascinating to him, so attractive in comparison with the formality and conventionality of social life at home, that he could not be induced to give up a prospect of pleasant adventure for the present and possible prosperity for the future to live a narrow life hampered by want of means at home. Therefore bidding his friends farewell, he set out for the New World, resolved to make a stay of some years in the far West. He arrived in the country at the time when a great gathering of the tribes--Crees, Stoneys, Blackfeet, Piegans, Bloods and Sarcees--was assembled at the Blackfoot Crossing.

The tribes had been invited to meet the representatives of the Government at Blackfoot Crossing. Having implicit confidence in the Great Mother, the Queen, they made their way to the place of meeting. There were assembled nearly three thousand belonging to the different tribes when Major Brown arrived. He was much impressed with the people, and listened in amazement to the oratory of Crowfoot, Red Crow and Bear's-paw, notable chiefs of the Blackfoot, Blood and Cree tribes. The Government Commissioners addressed the people in the name of the Queen, urging them to make a treaty surrendering their lands to her for the benefit of her subjects, and assuring them that she would compensate them amply for their loyalty.

It seemed a difficult matter for the Indians to give up the lands whereon they had dwelt so long, and to allow the white man to come in and take possession, but they knew that every promise which had hitherto been made to them in the Queen's name had been faithfully fulfilled, and that the advice given them was for their good.

The great chief of the Blackfeet, Crowfoot, arose, and addressing the Commissioners in the presence of the large assemblage, said, in the impressive manner of which he was a master:

"While I speak, be kind and patient. I have to speak to my people, who are numerous, and who rely upon me to follow that course which in the future will tend to their good. The plains are large and wide. We are the children of the plains. It is our home, and the buffalo has always been our food. I hope you look upon the Bloods, Blackfeet and Sarcees as your children now, and that you will be indulgent and charitable to them. They all expect me to speak now for them, and I trust that the Great Spirit will put it into their breasts--into the minds of the men, women and children and their future generations--to be a good people.

"The advice given me and my people has proved to be very good. If the police had not come to this country, where would we all be now? Bad men and whiskey men were killing us so fast that very few, indeed, of us would have been left to-day. The police have protected us as the feathers of the bird protect it from the frosts of winter. I wish them good, and trust that all our hearts will increase in goodness from this time forward. I am satisfied; I will sign the treaty."

Several others spoke, but they for the most part repeated what Crowfoot had said. At last the terms of the treaty being fully explained and understood, the names of the chiefs were written in the native language, and the men signed it with their marks or totems.

Food was given the people, and the chiefs accepted the officers' uniforms and medals which were given in commemoration of the event. After being informed that they would receive their money payments regularly every year, the vast assembly dispersed.

Major Brown was busy among the people, and through the aid of one of the interpreters he made many friends among the red men.

A large detachment of Mounted Police travelled southward until they came to the prairie village on the banks of the Old Man's River, where they had erected their barracks of logs and mud. The Major accompanied them, and was not long in getting a position as clerk in one of the trading establishments in the primitive-looking town, where by his manly bearing and genial disposition he very soon made friends among the white people and the red men.

After breaking up their camp the Indians started southward on a buffalo hunt, and few of them were again seen until about the time when they returned for the annual treaty payment. They met on the banks of the Kootenay River, pitched their camp and then rode into the prairie village to receive their annuities.

Several thousands of dollars were paid, for each received five dollars per annum--men, women and children--the chiefs receiving ten dollars and the head chief twenty-five dollars.

As soon as the payments were over Major Brown set out with three men and a large supply of goods for the Indian camp, and it was upon his arrival that the women were struck with the handsome appearance of the tall Englishman.

A large tent was pitched, and the people gathered in large numbers to feast their eyes, like little children, upon the great display. Blankets, beads, tea, tobacco, fancy pipes, shirts, belts, guns and various kinds of cloth in fancy colors attracted young and old.

The presence of the Mounted Police in the country had made it possible for this handful of men to expose their goods in this loose fashion among the people. In the days previous to the advent of this force of red-coats the trading was done in a very different fashion. Formerly the traders built a log fort, which they fortified with a high stockade. A few Indians were allowed to enter for the purpose of trading, and while they stood at the counter they were guarded by men who had rifles, ready to shoot them down if they showed any intention of stealing, or acted in a spirit of enmity. Brawls were frequent under such conditions, as some of the traders were unscrupulous, and when under the influence of liquor took advantage of the natives.

The Major had picked up some of the common words among the people, and was able to make himself understood. A brisk trade was done in the camp for several days. The Indians were paid in one-dollar bills, as they did not understand bills of a larger denomination.

Five women were seated in a lodge conversing while the men were visiting their friends or buying goods at the trading tent.

One of them spoke up saying, "Have you seen the tall man?" and another said, "Yes; have you seen the white chief?" "He is a handsome man!" "He has a good temper!" "He does not get angry!" "He is always smiling!"

With expressions such as these, mingled with a gentle titter, the women talked about the man who was in charge of the tent.

"Has he a wife?"

"No! he has not any," replied one of the women. "I was at his lodge and I did not see any woman there, and he has not another tent in the camp."

"He is like all other white men; he does not care for an Indian woman," ejaculated another.

"No! he is not like others; he is a far better looking man, and he would not treat an Indian woman like them. He has too good a heart."

"I would not trust him. He is like all the others. They are all alike. My chief says they are all the same. They look very pleasant, but they have the heart of a snake."

In the lodge sat a young woman who took no part in the conversation, and yet listened intently to the words of the others. She was an interested listener, but with the quiet demeanor of an Indian her countenance was unmoved while they were speaking. She was a comely maiden of about fifteen or sixteen years, whom her father loved so much that he would not give her to any of the men in the camp; thus she had remained unmarried longer than was generally the case. She was modest and beautiful, dressed neatly and worked hard. She, too, had seen the white chief, as they called Major Brown, for she had accompanied her father several times to trade. He had even spoken to her, and she had replied in her own quiet way to his questions when her father signified his desire for her to speak. It was not, therefore, an uninteresting conversation to her, although she refrained from discussing his personal appearance or character.

"Come, Napiake, what do you think of the white chief?" asked one of the women.

"I don't think anything about him," she replied, in her modest way.

"Oh, yes, you do," replied one of the group. "You do not go to the trading tent with your father every day for nothing."

She was silent, however, upon this subject, and although the women tried to draw her out by their questions they failed. It could not be doubted, however, from the expression of her eye, that she had experienced some emotion when the subject was touched upon, but from her manner she seemed to care little about the matter. This may have arisen from her womanly nature. At any rate she remained quiet while the women talked on upon a topic so pleasing to them.

After the busy time was over, the white men determined to remain two or three days longer, and during this period Major Brown was a frequent visitor at the old man's lodge. He seldom came without bringing some tobacco or other present to the chief, and although he did not understand much of the native language, he listened respectfully while the chief would relate in his own animated style the thrilling tales of his early days.

The Major was able to follow him to some extent in his stories, and at any rate he seemed delighted with what the old man said, which pleased his host very much. Napiake sat in the lodge an interested listener.

The tent at last was cleared of all the goods and placed on the large wagon, and in a few hours they would take their departure for town. Major Brown bought a fine horse and made a present of it to the chief, with a gun and some provisions. He then turned to the young woman and simply said, "Napiake." The father nodded his head, spoke a few words to her in the Blackfoot tongue, and the girl arose, dressed herself and followed Major Brown.

The women peered from the doors of their lodges, but Napiake cared not, for well she knew that some of them would be jealous and others delighted that she was the wife of the white chief. Unceremonious it might seem to the civilized, but Napiake had long expected that some day she would have to go forth at the bidding of her father to be the wife of some Indian who would take her father's fancy, or reward him well, so that his love would be outweighed. The time had come, and she had got better than an Indian chief for her husband, and the maiden was delighted beyond measure. She had heard that the white men had only one wife each, and that they were kind to them, so felt that she was elevated above the Indian maidens in thus becoming the sole wife of one man. Unregretfully she left her father's lodge, for she was going not more than a day's journey distant, so that she could see her kin often; besides she had remained at home full two years longer than the maidens of her camp, and she felt grateful to her father for his love.

Major Brown was a happy man as this beautiful Indian woman of tender years followed him at a close distance. He was following the custom of the white men in the country in taking an Indian woman for his wife. He placed her upon the wagon and along with the men she went to town. She found a home for two weeks with the Indian wife of one of the white men in town, and during this time the Major built a small log-house, neat and comfortable, and furnished it well. Napiake was pleased to have a house of her own, and she set to work to make it as attractive as she could for her husband. As husband and wife they were happy and contented. He had a good situation, was steady and industrious, and she was tidy, hard working, and faithful.

A babe was born to them and their cup of happiness seemed full. He was the welcome heir of the log mansion, the father's pride and the mother's joy. At night when the heavy day's work was done, the Major would dandle the child on his knee, and sing and coo to him. He was happy, and nothing could induce him to leave his home in the evenings. The babe resembled his father, a fact of which both parents were proud.

The child was only a few months old when Major Brown received instructions to proceed to Pincher Creek, nearly forty miles distant, with a supply of goods to trade with a camp of Indians located there. The Major and Napiake went along with the other members of the party who were to accompany them.

A few days were spent with the Indians near the mountains, and upon their return home, the mail having arrived, the Major found some important letters awaiting him from the home land. The business of the camp for a time kept him later than usual at his office, but after the busy season was over, he informed Napiake that he was going to give her a visit of a few days in the camp with her friends, and during her absence he would start off to the mountains on a hunting expedition.

Napiake was delighted with the idea, as she had seen the Major's face for the past few days was paler than usual, and felt sure that a hunting expedition to the mountains would restore the color to his cheeks. She began at once to make clothes for her babe, that she might show him off to advantage in the lodges of her people.

The day came for her departure, and the Major took her and the child to the lodges of her people. Napiake and her babe were received with great joy, and her husband welcomed, for the Major had not been in the camp more than twice since the day that he took Napiake from her home. Nearly three years had passed since she departed with the Major, but it had been such a happy period that it seemed but as yesterday since she turned her back upon her father's home.

Major Brown returned to the camp at the time promised for Napiake and his child, and the aged chief was delighted to see him. The Major took his wife and child to their home, and was as happy as ever in their company. Napiake said nothing to him about what she had heard in the camp, for she had trusted him, and he seemed to be worthy of all her confidence.

A few months passed by and another babe was born. The Indians came to see the fair skinned babe, whom they named Morning Star. She shed her light for a while in the home, and then it was suddenly extinguished. The child sickened and died, and great was the sorrow of the household at her loss. But there is always a blessing in affliction, uniting the hearts of the sorrowing ones more firmly together and increasing their love for each other. And it was so in this instance. The Major could not do enough for his wife to soothe her heart for the loss of the babe. Little Morning Star was placed in a beautiful coffin, and laid away to rest in the ground beside the graves of the white men in the settlement.

Napiake often wandered with her little boy to the grave of her darling, and sitting beside it she would pour out her grief. So intense was it that she oftentimes forgot to go home, and the Major would find her weeping by the spot. The father was sad, but he restrained his grief and endeavored to comfort his wife.

One evening after the mail had come in, Major Brown came home with a serious countenance. His wife and child met him at the door. At once his serious mood disappeared and he was himself again. He dandled his boy upon his knee and talked cheerfully to Napiake. Supper over, he drew a large envelope from his pocket, and opening the letter it contained, read it inaudibly, but with an earnest, serious expression on his face. His wife busied herself about her household duties, glancing occasionally at the Major as he sat poring over his letter.

"Napiake," he said sadly, "I am going on a long journey across the sea. I have some important business to attend to at my old home, and I must go there to look after it."

The woman stopped her work as the Major uttered these words, a great fear coming into her heart.

"May I not go with you and make you happy among your people? I am willing to go anywhere with you," she said, as she looked steadfastly in his face.

"That would never do, Napiake, to take you away from your own people."

The tears started to her eyes. Was her devoted husband going to leave her, and would he never return? Perhaps he might follow the example of others, and leave her. No, that was impossible. He was too good. She never had cause to doubt his faithfulness, and she knew that he would either take her or return to dwell in the country.

"When are you coming back?" she asked timorously.

"I shall be absent about a year, and then I will return, and we shall never again be parted."

Napiake gazed earnestly at him through her falling tears, but his glance was so honest and true that she said, "Well!" Not a word more escaped her lips, but the tears ran freely down her cheeks.

In a few weeks the Major had all his matters arranged and was ready to leave. A few minor matters had to be attended to, so he took his wife and child to camp. The aged chief received him with marks of esteem. He loved his son-in-law, and thought there was no one in all the country equal to him for ability, and he never tired telling his friends that the Major was a handsome man.

The Major related his plans to his father-in-law, who listened attentively, and when he had finished he placed a sum of money in the hands of the old man.

Early next morning as he bade them farewell, a large party stood around the lodge to see him depart. He stooped and kissed Napiake and his son, and with a wave of his hand, drove away.

A grand banquet was given the Major in town by his friends, many of whom came miles to attend this farewell supper, for he was a great favorite with all. A large crowd gathered about the stage-coach to shake hands with him as he said good-bye to one and all.

That same evening there were a number of his friends in the neighboring town of Leighton to see him off at the little railroad station. The night was dark, and as he stood in the circle of friends, he excused himself for a moment and stepped aside. There in the gloom stood an Indian woman with her boy, looking on and weeping. It was Napiake and her child who had come a distance of thirty miles to get a last glimpse of him. Faithful to the last, there she stood, weeping disconsolately.

The Major was touched by this evidence of her devotion to him, but as he strove to comfort her the conductor shouted, "All aboard!" the engine whistled, and the Major, placing a sum of money in the hands of each, kissed them both, sprang upon the train, and was gone. Napiake and the boy watched the retreating train until it disappeared in the darkness, and then sadly retraced their way to the camp.

"I'll give you two horses for her," said Pinakwaiem.

"Two horses are not enough. She is a good worker, and she is young, and you know she can talk English, and is a good housekeeper, for she was the wife of the white chief."

"The wife of the white chief! And that's the reason she is not worth so much. I'll give you the two horses."

"All right, you can have her."

Napiake, after waiting patiently for two years for the return of her white chief, had become the wife of an old Indian, sold for two horses and destined to slavery. Pinakwaiem led Napiake and her son to his lodge. Not a word escaped from the patient woman. As a sheep led to the slaughter she was dumb, submissively following the man who had bought her, for she was now his wife according to the Indian custom. There were three women already in the lodge to which she was going who were recognized as wives, and Napiake as the latest addition held a good position for a while amongst them. The old man then treated them well, and she seemed to have a hold upon his affections. She did her work faithfully, uttering no word of complaint. But in a few months the novelty of the new life wore off, and Pinakwaiem began to treat her harshly. It was not hard for him to see that her heart was not with him. Napiake never smiled, and seldom spoke. Her life was sad and hard. She carried the wood from the bush on her back, the burden bending her almost in two, and bore large pails full of water a long distance from the stream. Her little boy seemed to be always in the way; he was scolded, but never struck, for the customs of the natives frown upon the harsh treatment of children.

The old life and the new were in strange contrast. She had become the drudge of the lodge and the most despised of the wives of the old man. Doomed as she now was to a life of sadness, toil and oppression, all hope died out of her heart and she had no delight in any of the amusements of the camp.

Sometimes the name of the white chief was mentioned in her presence as a taunt, and stung with the remembrance of her former treatment, Napiake sought peace in the solitude of the bush or by the river, where she sat for hours with her little boy by her side. She gave not railing for railing. The sweet and beautiful countenance of the former days had fled, and given place to a haggard expression which made her appear to be an old woman, as she dragged her wearied limbs through the camp. Some of the Indians jeered at her, but others pitied her in her loneliness and grief. The thought of her boy alone sustained her, and by a great effort she determined to live for him.

She could not flee to another camp, there was no place for her among the white people, divorce there was none, and she hoped that some day her Indian husband might sell her to another Indian who might treat her more humanely. But the seeds of disease were sown in her system, and she was already doomed to fall a victim to the curse of the Indians, that fell destroyer, consumption.

The medicine drum was beaten night after night, and the song and prayers of the medicine-man sounded through the camp. But all was of no avail; Napiake's life was slowly ebbing away.

Late one night there entered the lodge a white man, dignified and grave. The Indians gave him the seat of honor in the lodge. He knelt beside the sick woman, beautiful now as ever in the days of health. The haggard looks had disappeared, and a peaceful contentment rested upon her face. The visitor spoke in a low tone, and Napiake listened, attentively answering his questions. Her father and friends leaned forward to catch her faintly expressed words. After some quiet conversation, raising herself in a state of excitement and looking the missionary in the face, Napiake inquired:

"Shall we see each other there?"

"Yes, in the land of God, we shall see each other."

"Shall we know each other?" eagerly asked the woman upon whose countenance the shadow of the death-angel had fallen.

"Yes," was the simple answer of the man.

"I shall see him! I shall see him! Shall we live there always?"

"Yes, we shall, never to be parted again!"

Napiake fell back upon her couch, saying, "I'm satisfied, I'm satisfied! God is just."

A few heavings of the breast and the hands fell by her side. Napiake, the beautiful Blackfoot woman, was at rest.

In a large and busy manufacturing town in the west of England, a merchant sat in his office reading his letters. At the door stood a coach with a pair of handsome horses; seated in it a lady with a babe upon her knee.

"Tell your master that I am waiting," said she to the footman, who promptly obeyed the command.

"I will be there in a few minutes," was the reply. The merchant seldom went for a drive, his extensive business usually requiring his whole attention; but he had made up his mind to spend this afternoon with his wife and child. The letter-carrier had just delivered his mail, and he was hastening to give directions to the letter clerks to answer them before leaving.

Among the others was a paper from the Canadian North-West, in which a marked paragraph caught his eye:

"There died last Friday, on the Blood Reserve, Napiake, an Indian squaw. Some of the pioneers of the district may remember her as a beautiful woman when she was young, who lived for a time in the village in the early days."

Turning suddenly pale, he laid the paper aside and left the office. As he sat in the coach his wife pointed to several objects of interest which they passed, chatting freely about them, but he paid little attention. It was as though he heard her not. All her efforts to drive away his morose silence were in vain. Far away at the foot of the Rocky Mountains the husband saw a woman dying in an Indian lodge, a woman who loved him to the last, but whom he had deserted and forgotten. Forgotten? No! He could never forget her.

But in that busy English town he is a merchant prince, holding an honored position in society. He is a member of several societies, and is often speaking on behalf of the enfranchisement of women and popular education.

Sometimes an old man leading a boy by the hand may be seen standing beside a mound on the wide prairie of the West, but there is no other that ever visits that lonely grave.

Little Charlie Brown finds a home among the Indians, depending on them for food and clothing, and sometimes an old-timer takes compassion upon the boy and gives him a morsel of food or some clothing. He endures the poverty of an Indian lodge, while over the sea his father enjoys the comforts of an English mansion.

THE COMING OF APAUAKAS.

Night after night during the long and dreary winter, from where the lodges were pitched among the small patches of timber that fringed the river bank, came the low, monotonous beating of the medicine-drums, a sad refrain telling the story of sickness and death.

"Take pity on me! Take pity on me!" floated upon the evening air, a wail from the lips of the aged warrior as he lay on his earthen couch and wrestled with the grim spirits who were waiting for his soul.

Thick clouds of pestilential fever hung over the camp. The ruddy glow of the lodge fires served but to deepen the gloom. The happy hunting days were gone; the excitement of the buffalo chase was a thing of the past. The ancient traditions of the coming of a race of white men who were superior in numbers and strength were now being fulfilled, and the hearts of the mourners in the camp by the river were heavy. "Take pity on me!" was the burden of their song. Strong men bowed their heads as they uttered the plaintive words; the women wept and prayed. The children alone were merry and wondered why their mothers were sad.

In the deep recesses of the wood, high in the forks of the trees, the dead lay still and cold, freed from the pain and poverty of the plague-stricken camps. No angel visitant came with mercy in her hands to relieve the sick or to bestow gifts upon the poor. Forsaken by friends and foes, the dying turned from their friends and sighed their lives away.

Night had closed in upon the desolate scene, and the dwellers in the lodges were seeking what rest they might, when a sharp cry rent the air causing many to raise their heads and listen. But it was no warning shout of danger; it was only the wail of a stricken heart. A father had returned from the mountains, whither he had gone in quest of game, and on entering his lodge found none to meet him save an aged medicine-woman. Wife, sister and children had all been called to the spirit-land. His hearth was desolate; the song and the prattle of merry childhood which had always greeted his home-coming were silenced forever. Throwing himself upon the ground he wailed forth his anguish in the cry that had startled the sleeping camp.

Hope had well-nigh died in the breasts of the people. Their medicine-men's charms no longer protected them from sickness, and their guardian spirits had abandoned them in the hour of distress. They prayed and longed for release from the pain and burden of life. Yet a few days more and their prayers would be answered.

The morning sun was gilding the eastern horizon as a young man, footsore and weary, drew near the camp and ran eagerly toward the chief's lodge.

"What news? What news?" asked the people of each other, but none could reply. The men dragged themselves to the lodge where the young man waited impatiently the coming of the chief. The latter entered presently with his friends, and in obedience to his command the young man delivered his message before them all.

"Chief: It is now three moons since I left my people here and travelled toward the northern land, where dwell the Sarcees, Crees and Stoneys. I went to a large camp of the Crees. The people received me in kindness and supplied me with every need. Their hearts were filled with joy and they sang from daylight till the darkness fell. There was abundance of food; the medicine-man's drum had ceased to beat, there was no sickness in their camps. Guardian spirits hovered over the lodges, and as I sat day after day among the people I listened to songs and stories that were strange to my ears. I waited for the feasts that we ofttimes have in our own camps that I might take part in the amusements of my people, but as I spoke of these things they gazed at me in astonishment and pity. I became angry and would have departed had not an aged chief named Jacob come into the lodge.

"The old chief looked upon me with kindness in his eyes and addressed me in my native tongue. He related to me the tales of my childhood and my heart was glad. I had found a spirit kindred to my own. He spoke of the 'Old Man of the Mountains,' the 'Blood Clot Boy,' the 'Morning Star' and all the wonderful things they had done.

"'Your fathers have told you, young man,' he said, 'of the coming of a tribe vast in numbers and different in color and habits from the Indians of the plains. You have listened in the lodges of the south to the story of the great hero Apauakas, who is to come bringing blessings in his hands for all the people. When he comes the buffalo shall increase in number, the people shall have food in plenty and shall not need to toil so hard. The land shall obey his command, the rivers shall have many fishes, the mountains and prairies be covered with antelope, sheep and goats. The wolf and the bear shall flee away into the secret places of the hills, and no longer shall they molest us. Our camp shall be filled with children and happy mothers. My son, the Great Chief is coming! coming!'

"My heart was filled with joy as I listened to his words, and I longed for the coming of Apauakas. The chief had risen as he thus spoke kindly to me, but was silent. He struggled to control his emotions, then leaning forward and gazing earnestly into my face he said slowly:

"'Young man, the white tribe has come, the prophecy is fulfilled. All over the prairie the men and women of the white tribe are building their lodges. The buffalo have fled before their presence, disease and death have spread desolation among our camps. The land of our fathers has been taken from us, the Indian race is doomed to depart before the feet of the white stranger and we dwell in the land of an enemy. Would that I had died before I had seen this hour; I had then been spared the pain and anguish that have fallen upon us.'

"As he ceased, smitten with sorrow and anger, I laid my hand upon my knife, determined to depart and slay the oppressor or drive him from the land. But the chief spoke again.

"'I am not done,' he said. 'When I think of the happy days enjoyed by my people I am silent, though the warm blood coursing through my veins makes it hard to restrain my anger. One day as we sat in our lodges nursing our sick in sadness, while the medicine-men beat their drums and prayed, there came to our camp from the lodges of the white tribe a pale-faced man. He could not speak our language, but he made signs that he wished to live with us. We suffered him to stay, and gave him a share of our scanty food.

"'Every morning and evening he knelt upon the ground and prayed. We knew not what he said, for his tongue was strange to us. He helped the men and women at their work, played with the children, and nursed the sick. He learned our language quickly, and then he began to tell us of a Great Teacher who had come to bless all people.

"'He held in his hand pieces of bark of a kind we knew not. They were fastened together and had writing on them that was not like the writing upon our lodges. These he held reverently, for he said it was "the writing sent by the Great Spirit to his children."

"'Day by day we gathered in the lodges or under the shade of the trees, and listened to the holy man as he sang sweet songs and taught them to us in our native tongue. He prayed and the sick were healed. He struck the ground, poured water upon it, and food came out of it for young and old.

"'We prayed to him, and then he became angry. "I am only a man," he said; "pray to the Great Spirit." We followed him wherever he went, and blessings came to us. Again and again he told us the story of the Great Teacher, and we drank eagerly of his words. The sick and the aged sent for him and said, "Tell it over again!" and when he told it they said, "Tell it again!"

"'One day when the people were assembled listening to his words, a little child sat beside him. Again he related the glory of the coming Great Chief, of the peace and joy that would dwell in our camps when the little children should know and love Him. As he looked upon the writing and sang and prayed, his lips quivered and tears flowed from his eyes. The little child by his side looked up into his face and then at the people, and whispered, "Apauakas!"

"'Then the people fell upon their faces and cried with one voice, "Apauakas! Apauakas!" As they rose they saw the white stranger on his knees and heard him say, "He has come! Christ has come!"

"As the aged chief Jacob related this to me, the people in the lodge clasped their hands together and sang a song about Apauakas, whom they called the Christ. When they had finished, Jacob took my hand and said, 'Young man, the Great Teacher has come; stay with us and you will see Him soon, for He dwells in our hearts and gives us peace.' I therefore stayed in the camp and looked daily for His coming, but I saw Him not.

"My heart was sad, and I prayed to the spirits of the prairie to help me. I walked, turning over in my thoughts all the wonderful things I had heard. I fell upon my face and groaned, 'Apauakas! Apauakas!' Brothers, my cry was answered: a bright light shone around me, and a voice from the overhanging clouds said gently, 'Arise! Apauakas has come. Call me no longer Apauakas, but Christ, for I shall aid and deliver you from all your foes!'

"I arose and sped towards the camp, and as the people saw me coming, they ran to meet me, shouting, 'He has found the Christ! The Christ has come!' I sang for joy, and the weeks fled as if they were but hours.

"One day the chief came to me and said, 'Brother, a messenger has come from the south bearing sad tidings. Sickness and death are in the camps of your people. Go, tell them of Apauakas the Great Teacher, who will relieve and bless them in their hours of woe.'

"I bade him farewell and hurried homeward. My heart sank within me as I came through the wood near the camp and beheld the trees bearing the bodies of my people whom I had left strong and well. I bring a message of peace. Apauakas has come to bless and heal His children. Chief, I have finished."

The eager eyes and haggard countenances of the men who listened to the young man's story had been strained and then relaxed as they followed the story with absorbing interest to the end. A great silence fell upon the lodge, and one by one the men arose and went away to their own lodges. They spoke no word, but pondered in silence over the strange things that they had heard. Throughout the next day they talked to each other by the lodge fires; the coming of Apauakas was the burden of the stories told to the women, and a deep, earnest longing took possession of their hearts. At evening time they waited and prayed, but He came not. Despair began once more to be depicted on the faces of the people, and the signs of a coming storm added fear to their misery. The sky grew dark, the air heavy. As they waited in an agony of spirit for the consummation of all their woes, the storm broke, and as it increased in strength the women prayed. One voice alone was heard above the wild wailing of the wind, and the terror-stricken inmates of the lodges listened as it sang, "Apauakas is coming! coming soon!"

At this the women stilled their whispered prayers and waited, looking for the Teacher. The rain ceased to beat upon the lodges, the clouds were swept from the sky, the sun shone out in all its glory, and the air seemed full of voices singing words of love and tenderness.

They looked to where the young man knelt, and saw that a smile of joy rested on his face as he gazed up into the heavens. A strange feeling of awe made them bow their heads. When they looked again they saw he had fallen to the ground. They ran to him, and as they raised him in their arms, gazing in pity into his face, he murmured, "Apauakas has come!" and closed his eyes.

A beautiful spot on the prairie is the honored resting-place of the gentle messenger of love; the Great Teacher had come and taken him home. Health, peace and comfort returned to the people, bringing with them a better knowledge, a nobler life. The stranger who now sits in the lodges and listens to the stories told by the Indians will hear the young man's name repeated with reverence as the prophet who led his people to look for the coming of the Teacher, and see eyes suffused with tears as they repeat,

"APAUAKAS HAS COME! THE CHRIST HAS COME!"

FOREST, LAKE AND PRAIRIE

TWENTY YEARS OF FRONTIER LIFE IN WESTERN CANADA, 1842-1862.

By JOHN McDOUGALL.

WITH 27 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. E. LAUGHLIN.

Read the following comments:

"This is a true boy's book, and equals in stirring interest anything written by Kingston or Ballantyne. It ought to sell by the thousand."--Mrs. S. A. Curzon, in _Orillia Packet_.

"Possessed of an intimate acquaintance with all the varied aspects of frontier life, Mr. McDougall has produced a book that will delight the heart of every boy reader."--_Endeavor Herald_.

"There are many graphic descriptions of scenes in that vast fertile region in those early days when travelling was difficult and dangerous, but most fascinating to a youth of John McDougall's temperament and training. He lives those stirring times over again in his lively narrative, and relates his personal experiences with all the glow and vividness of an ardent, youthful hunter."--_Canadian Baptist_.

Canadian Savage Folk

The Native Tribes of Canada.

BY

JOHN MACLEAN, M.A., Ph.D.

AUTHOR OF 'THE INDIANS OF CANADA,' 'THE WARDEN OF THE PLAINS,' ETC.

In one volume, 642 pages, fully illustrated and handsomely bound.

PRICE, . . $2.50

CONTENTS: SOME QUEER FOLK--IN THE LODGES--CHURCH AND CAMP--NATIVE HEROES--NATIVE RELIGIONS, RACES AND LANGUAGES--ON THE TRAIL.

"There is no man in Canada, possibly anywhere, who has made a more careful, painstaking life-work in the study of the aboriginal races and all the writings extant relative to them, their traditions and history, than Dr. John Maclean.... While gleaning information from all the recognizedly authentic sources, Dr. Maclean, by his personal experience and individual knowledge, has added not only a vast amount of hitherto unpublished material, but has revivified and reset the old in the most attractive and readable form."--_The Week_.

"The whole ground is covered with a wealth of historic knowledge, while the style makes it as interesting as a romance. The author's familiarity with the subject, being for years a missionary in the far North-West, makes the work a thoroughly reliable treatise."--_Neepawa Register_.

SADDLE, SLED AND SNOWSHOE

PIONEERING ON THE SASKATCHEWAN IN THE SIXTIES

By JOHN McDOUGALL,

Author of "FOREST, LAKE AND PRAIRIE."

WITH 15 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. E. LAUGHLIN.

PRICE, $1.00.

"... If it be their good fortune to obtain it, 'SADDLE, SLED AND SNOWSHOE' will not disappoint their most sanguine expectations.... While hard work, hardship, and plucky endurance characterize and give vim and go to the story, the incidents in which the love of fun, inherent in every boy's nature, finds opportunity of play, add much to the brightness and realistic value of the book. The book is well illustrated, the drawings being faithful to the reality, and the scenes well chosen."--_The Week_.

Press Comments on "Forest, Lake and Prairie."

"Mr. McDougall is a true child of nature. He has passed through scenes that would stir the pulses of less impulsive men, and he writes with the keenest enthusiasm: and this spirit possesses the reader of his thrilling pages."--_Christian Guardian_.

"I have read no book better fitted to inspire our Canadian boys with a healthy interest in their own undiscovered country: nor any more calculated to put into our growing youth the strong, sturdy, self-reliant spirit of a real manhood, an heroic, muscular Christianity."--_Canadian Home Journal_.

WILLIAM BRIGGS, Publisher, Toronto.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Warden of the Plains, by John Maclean