It was a sad but interesting council that was held in the little fortress of “Tim’s Folly” the day following that on which the grizzly bear was captured.  
The wounded missionary, lying in Big Tim’s bed, presided. Beside him, with an expression of profound sorrow on his fine face, sat Whitewing, the prairie chief. Little Tim and his big son sat at his feet. The other Indians were ranged in a semicircle before him.
 
In one sense it was a red man’s council, but there were none of the Indian formalities connected with it, for the prairie chief and his followers had long ago renounced the superstitions and some of the practices of their kindred.
 
Softswan was not banished from the council chamber, as if unworthy even to listen to the discussions of the “lords of creation,” and no pipe of peace was smoked as a preliminary, but a brief, earnest prayer for guidance was put up by the missionary to the Lord of hosts, and subjects more weighty than are usually broached in the councils of savages were discussed.
 
The preacher’s voice was weak, and his countenance pale, but the wonted look of calm confidence was still there.
 
“Whitewing,” he said, raising himself on one elbow, “I will speak as God gives me power, but I am very feeble, and feel that the discussion of our plans must be conducted chiefly by yourself and your friends.”
 
He paused, and the chief, with the usual dignity of the red man, remained silent, waiting for more. Not so Little Tim. That worthy, although gifted with all the powers of courage and endurance which mark the best of the American savages, was also endowed with the white man’s tendency to assert his right to wag his tongue.
 
“Cheer up, sir,” he said, in a tone of encouragement, “you mustn’t let your spirits go down. A good rest here, an’ good grub, wi’ Softswan’s cookin’—to say nothin’ o’ her nursin’—will put ye all right before long.”
 
“Thanks, Little Tim,” returned the missionary, with a smile; “I do cheer up, or rather, God cheers me. Whether I recover or am called home is in His hands; therefore all shall be well. But,” he added, turning to the chief, “God has given us brains, hands, materials, and opportunities to work with, therefore must we labour while we can, as if all depended on ourselves. The plans which I had laid out for myself He has seen fit to change, and it now remains for me to point out what I aimed at, so that we may accommodate ourselves to His will. Sure am I that with or without my aid, His work shall be done, and, for the rest—’though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.”
 
Again he paused, and the Indians uttered that soft “Ho!” of assent with which they were wont to express approval of what was said.
 
“When I left the settlements of the white men,” continued the preacher, “my object was twofold: I wished to see Whitewing, and Little Tim, and Brighteyes, and all the other dear friends whom I had known long ago, before the snows of life’s winter had settled on my head, but my main object was to visit Rushing River, the Blackfoot chief, and carry the blessed Gospel to his people, and thus, while seeking the salvation of their souls, also bring about a reconciliation between them and their hereditary foe, Bounding Bull.”
 
“It’s Rushin’ River as is the enemy,” cried Little Tim, interrupting, for when his feelings were excited he was apt to become regardless of time, place, and persons, and the allusion to his son’s wife’s father—of whom he was very fond—had roused him. “Boundin’ Bull would have bin reconciled long ago if Rushin’ River would have listened to reason, for he is a Christian, though I’m bound to say he’s somethin’ of a queer one, havin’ notions of his own which it’s not easy for other folk to understand.”
 
“In which respect, daddy,” remarked Big Tim, using the English tongue for the moment, and allowing the smallest possible smile to play on his lips, “Bounding Bull is not unlike yourself.”
 
“Hold yer tongue, boy, else I’ll give you a woppin’,” said the father sternly.
 
“Dumb, daddy, dumb,” replied the son meekly.
 
It was one of the peculiarities of this father and son that they were fond of expressing their regard for each other by indulging now and then in a little very mild “chaff,” and the playful threat to give his son a “woppin’”—which in earlier years he had sometimes done with much effect—was an invariable proof that Little Tim’s spirit had been calmed, and his amiability restored.
 
“My white father’s intentions are good,” said Whitewing, after another pause, “and his faith is strong. It needs strong faith to believe that the man who has shot the preacher shall ever smoke the pipe of peace with Whitewing.”
 
“With God all things are possible,” returned the missionary. “And you must not allow enmity to rankle in your own breast, Whitewing, because of me. Besides, it was probably one of Rushing River’s braves, and not himself, who shot me. In any case they could not have known who I was.”
 
“I’m not so sure o’ that,” said Big Tim. “The Blackfoot reptile has a sharp eye, an’ father has told me that you knew him once when you was in these parts twenty years ago.”
 
“Yes, I knew him well,” returned the preacher, in a low, meditative voice. “He was quite a little boy at the time—not more than ten years of age, I should think, but unusually strong and brave. I met him when travelling alone in the woods, and it so happened that I had the good fortune to save his life by shooting a brown bear which he had wounded, and which was on the point of killing him. I dwelt with him and his people for a time, and pressed him to accept salvation through Jesus, but he refused. The Holy Spirit had not opened his eyes, yet I felt and still feel assured that that time will come. But it has not come yet, if all that I have heard of him be true. You may depend upon it, however, that he did not shoot me knowingly.”
 
Both Little and Big Tim by their looks showed that their belief in Rushing River’s future reformation was very weak, though they said nothing, and the Indians maintained such imperturbable gravity that their looks gave no indication as to the state of their minds.
 
“My white father’s hopes and desires are good,” said Whitewing, after another long pause, during which the missionary closed his eyes, and appeared to be resting, and Tim and his son looked gravely at each other, for that rest seemed to them strongly to resemble death. “And now what does my father propose to do?”
 
“My course is clear,” answered the wounded man, opening his eyes with a bright, cheerful look. “I cannot move. Here God has placed me, and here I must remain till—till I get well. All the action must be on your part, Whitewing, and that of your friends. But I shall not be idle or useless as long as life and breath are left to enable me to pray.”
 
There was another decided note of approval from the Indians, for they had already learned the value of prayer.
 
“The first step I would wish you to take, however,” continued the missionary, “is to go and bring to this hut my sweet friend Brighteyes and your own mother, Whitewing, who, you tell me, is still alive.”
 
“The loved old one still lives,” returned the Indian.
 
“Lives!” interposed Little Tim, with emphasis, “I should think she does, an’ flourishes too, though she has shrivelled up a bit since you saw her last. Why, she’s so old now that we’ve changed her name to Live-for-ever. She sleeps like a top, an’ feeds like a grampus, an’ does little else but laugh at what’s goin’ on around her. I never did see such a jolly old girl in all my life. Twenty years ago—that time, you remember, when Whitewing carried her off on horseback, when the village was attacked—we all thought she was on her last legs, but, bless you sir, she can still stump about the camp in a tremblin’ sort o’ way, an’ her peepers are every bit as black as those of my own Brighteyes, an’ they twinkle a deal more.”
 
“Your account of her,” returned the preacher, with a little smile, “makes me long to see her again. Indeed, the sight of these two would comfort me greatly whether I live or die. They are not far distant from here, you say?”
 
“Not far. My father’s wish shall be gratified,” said Whitewing. “After they come we will consult again, and my father will be able to decide what course to pursue in winning over the Blackfeet.”
 
Of course the two Tims and all the others were quite willing to follow the lead of the prairie chief, so it was finally arranged that a party should be sent to the camp of the Indians, with whom Brighteyes and Live-for-ever were sojourning at the time—about a long day’s march from the little fortress—and bring those women to the hut, that they might once again see and gladden the heart of the man whom they had formerly known as the Preacher.
 
Now, it is a well-ascertained and undoubtable fact that the passion of love animates the bosoms of red men as well as white. It is also a curious coincidence that this passion frequently leads to modifications of action and unexpected, sometimes complicated, results and situations among the red as well as among the white men.
 
Bearing this in mind, the reader will be better able to understand why Rushing River, in making a raid upon his enemies, and while creeping serpent-like through the grass in order to reconnoitre previous............