Part 6 (2/2)

Young Antelope was only sixteen years old, but he was already thinking of getting married! It was the way of his people. The girls married even younger than the boys--sometimes when only twelve or thirteen years had pa.s.sed over their heads. It was therefore not strange that the chief's son should be considering what wife he would choose.

With many of the braves away on the hunt, the village was quiet, and the squaws took a little vacation from their work, as on the morrow they must be very busy caring for the supplies brought home by the hunters.

In the afternoon Sweet Gra.s.s said kindly: ”Timid Hare, you have been a good girl and worked hard of late. You may have the rest of the day for play. Try your new snowshoes, if you like.”

The rest of the day--two whole hours before sunset! It seemed too good to be true. Never had such a thing happened to the child since she left the home of the Mandans.

Without wasting a moment, Timid Hare got the snowshoes and left the tepee. For a moment she looked about her to see if any other little girl would like to join her in a skim over the fields. But all seemed busy at their games, and even now she was not enough at home with any one of them to ask them to leave their own play and go off with her, a captive.

So, binding on the shoes, she started off alone. What fun it was to move so fast and so smoothly! How clear was the air! How delightful it was to feel the blood rus.h.i.+ng freely through every part of her body!

Her cheeks tingled pleasantly; her heart beat with joy.

Mile after mile the child darted on in the opposite direction from that taken by the hunters in the morning. So happy, so free felt the child that she forgot how far she was travelling. Sometimes there were little rolls in the land. She would get up her speed as she approached them, so as to have force enough to reach the summit of a roll with ease. And then what fun it was to travel like the wind down the other side!

On, on, on! and then suddenly, Timid Hare came to herself. Where was the village? In what direction? Could she not see smoke rising somewhere behind her, telling of the fires burning in the homes of the people?

There was nothing, nothing, to guide her back--only some fields apparently untrodden in every direction. So light was the little girl's body that her shoes had rarely pressed through the crust. The short winter day was near its end. A bank of clouds was gathering about the setting sun, they told of an approaching storm; so also spoke the chill wind that blew in the child's face.

Fright clutched at Timid Hare's heart. She thought of the power of the storm-king. Here, in the snowy wilderness, it seemed that she must perish. Was there no one to turn to in this time of danger? Yes.

”Help me, Great Spirit,” cried the child, lifting her hands towards the sky where she believed He dwelt.

With that cry came a feeling that somehow her prayer would be answered.

And at the same time Timid Hare remembered the little sock which she always carried in her bosom. She pressed a hand against the place where it should rest. Yes, it was safe.

”White Mink had faith in it. So will I,” Timid Hare said to herself.

Many a time during the hard days with The Stone, she had repeated the same words. It had always helped her to do so.

And now she turned in the direction she hoped was the village of the Dahcotas, but her feet felt numb. It was hard to travel. Hark! what was that? It seemed as though men's voices could be heard shouting to each other in the distance. They came nearer. Could it be that Sweet Gra.s.s had sent some of the village boys out after her?

Nearer! Nearer! Timid Hare stood still, listening. If they would only hurry! She suddenly felt drowsy--the snow-chill was benumbing her whole body, and somehow she no longer cared whether she was found or not. She tottered, fell.

The next thing she knew, she was lying in the arms of a man with kind blue eyes. He was smiling at her, and he was white! Another man, white like himself, was rubbing her arms and legs.

”All right now,” the first man was saying to the other. ”Poor little thing! How did she ever get out here? That Dahcota village is a good dozen miles from here, and the child's moccasins tell that she is of that tribe.”

”We must waste no time in getting farther away from them ourselves,”

replied the other. ”Little time would be wasted in taking our scalps if they caught us alone.”

”But we can't leave this helpless creature,” said the first speaker.

”Do you know, Ben, she must be about the age of my own little daughter if--” The man's voice broke suddenly.

”Poor fellow--yes, I understand. You never will get over that blow.

But, really, Tom, we must not stay here. The savages may be upon us any moment. Here, use this. It may bring her to.”

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