Fanny, not suspecting any harm from a woman and so young a boy, still ran towards the door, being in advance of Ethan, who was chivalrous enough to place himself in position to cover the retreat of his companion in case of need. To the surprise of Fanny, the squaw placed herself in her path, and attempted to seize her, uttering yells hardly less savage than those of her male companions. The terrified girl paused in her rapid flight till Ethan came up. The resolute fellow had already picked up a heavy cart stake, and when he saw the new and unexpected peril which menaced Fanny, he rushed forward, and though the squaw drew a long knife and stood her ground, he dealt her a heavy blow on the head, which felled her to the ground.

"Run into the house as fast as you kin, Fanny," said Ethan.

She obeyed, and, in doing so, passed the scalped and mutilated form of her aunt, which lay near the door. The sight made her sick at heart, and she had almost fainted under the horror induced by a single glance at the ghastly spectacle. Such might, and probably would be her own fate, for it was hoping against hope to expect any other issue.

She reached the door, and clung to the post for support. Then she saw that Ethan, instead of following her, was pursuing the Indian boy. It was but a short chase, for he immediately overtook the youth, and in spite of his yells, dragged him into the house with him. Ethan seemed then to have a savage spirit, for he handled the boy without mercy, dragging him by the hair of the head, and kicking him to accelerate his movements.

The capture of the young Indian had been witnessed by the whole of the pursuing party, who yelled with renewed vigor when they saw him borne into the house. When they reached the place where the squaw had fallen, they paused. The tall form of Lean Bear was seen bending over her, and it was plain that there was confusion in the counsels of the savages.

"Hold this boy, Fanny," said Ethan, out of breath with the violence of his exertions, as he took from the belt of the little prisoner a small scalping-knife, and offered it to Fanny. "Don't let him go, no-how; stick him ef he don't keep still."

"I can hold him; I don't want the knife," replied she, as she grasped the boy by the arms, bending them back behind him.

Taking her handkerchief, she tied his arms behind him, so that he was powerless to do her any mischief. She then cut off a portion of the clothes line, which hung up in the kitchen, and tied his feet together. In this condition, he was secured to a door. The boy looked cool and savage; he did not cry, and ceased to struggle only when the bonds prevented him from doing so.

"Now we are ready for sunthin'," said Ethan, as he appeared with two guns and a revolver, which he had taken from their place of concealment behind the oven.



CHAPTER XV.

THE CONFERENCE.

Mr. Grant, like all settlers and backwoodsmen, had a profound respect and veneration for his weapons. They were absolutely necessary for purposes of defence in a new country, and upon their skilful use often depended the supplies in the family larder. More coveted than any other property by the Indians, trappers and strollers of the prairies, he was obliged to secure them carefully, so that they should not be stolen; and Mr. Grant, in building his house, had provided the place behind the oven for their reception.

One of the guns was a fowling-piece, and the other a rifle. The appropriate ammunition for each was kept in the secret closet with the weapon. For the revolver there was a plentiful supply of patent cartridges. Mr. Grant owned two of these arms, but the other he had taken with him.

Like all western boys, Ethan French was accustomed to the use of the rifle and the fowling-piece, though he had never particularly distinguished himself as a marksman. It was a bold idea on his part to think of defending Fanny and himself from the attacks of the savages; but, desperate as was the thought, it was his only hope, for the Indians were murdering all who fell into their hands. There was a slight chance for him, which he was disposed to improve.

Ethan evidently had some other purpose in view than that of merely defending himself and his companion from the savages—a purpose indicated by his capture of the Indian boy, though he had not had time to explain it to Fanny. He was firm and resolute, exhibiting a courage which no one would have supposed he possessed; indeed, we can hardly know what is in any person until he is tried in the fiery furnace.

Fanny, too, had ceased to tremble. The firmness and determination of Ethan had inspired her with courage, and without stopping to consider the odds against him, she ventured to hope that his efforts would be crowned with some measure of success. The occupation of the last few moments was calculated to increase her courage, for "something to do" is always the best antidote for fear. She had bound the young savage, and secured him to the door, when Ethan appeared with the weapons; and now she anxiously waited the development of his next movement.

"What are you going to do, Ethan?" she asked, as her companion walked to the door.

"I don't know jest exactly what I'm go'n to do; but I'm go'n to do sunthin', as sure as you're alive. I reckon I've done sunthin' already, for them Injins hes come to a dead halt."

"Can you see them?"

"Yes, I kin. They look kinder anxious."

The group of savages had gathered around the prostrate form of the squaw. She could not have been killed, or even very badly injured, by the blow she had received. Two of the party appeared to be at work over her, while the others, among whom Lean Bear was prominent, were holding a consultation near the spot.

"I reckon I got 'em whar the har 's short," added Ethan, with something like a chuckle at his own cleverness.

"What do you mean, Ethan?" asked Fanny, not yet able to comprehend the situation.

"D'ye see that little Injin?" replied he, pointing at the prisoner.

"Yes; and I wondered what you dragged him into the house for."

"Don't you see his fine fixin's—his necklaces and his moccasons? I reckon that boy belongs to the big Injin."

"You mean Lean Bear."

"Yes, if that's his name. He looks enough like him to be his son. Gittin' him 's what made 'em stop short jist whar they was. I tell you we've got 'em whar the har 's short."

"What are you going to do with him?"

"Don't ye see?" replied Ethan, as he finished loading the last of the weapons. "I'm go'n to shoot some of them Injins; and ef they don't keep off I'm go'n to shoot the boy."

"You wouldn't do that, Ethan."

"You bet!" replied he, firmly, using more western slang than was necessary, though he was dependent upon such expressions for the force of his language.

"But it would be wicked to kill the poor boy."

"What's them Injins doin' to all the white folks?"

"That is no reason why you should kill a harmless boy."

"I don't want to kill him; it would make me feel bad to do any sech thing. Ef any of them Injins come near us, I'm go'n to show 'em what I kin do. Keep still now; one on 'em is comin' up this way."

Ethan placed himself at one of the open windows, and cocked the rifle. One of the party was moving towards the house, apparently sent thither by Lean Bear, who appeared suddenly to have become very quiet and harmless.

"See hyer, Fanny," said Ethan, still keeping his eye fixed on the approaching foe.

"What shall I do?" asked Fanny.

"Did you tie that little Injin's hands strong?"

"As well as I could with my handkerchief."

"Better do it better with the clothes line. Then undo his feet, and put a rope round his neck."

"Around his neck!" exclaimed Fanny, horrified at the suggestion.

"Jest to lead him by. We may want to quit this house reyther suddin."

Fanny obeyed, satisfied that Ethan did not intend to hang the boy. The Indian, approaching the house, moved very slowly and cautiously, frequently stopping, and examining the house with great care. Ethan was on one of his knees, pointing the rifle at the single Indian, resting it on the sill of the window. When Lean Bear's messenger saw him, he came to a halt, and began to make earnest gestures, pointing to his belt, and throwing out his arms to indicate that he had no weapons.

"What does that creetur want?" mused Ethan.

"He wants to talk with you," replied Fanny, correctly interpreting his gestures.

"I can't talk Injin—kin you?"

"No; but some of the Indians talk English."

"What ye want?" shouted Ethan, satisfied that the man's intentions were peaceful.

"Talk! talk!" replied the messenger.

"Kim along, then," replied Ethan. "That's jest what I want, too," he added, to Fanny. "I want to tell them Injins that this hyer boy will ketch fits if they don't let us be."

The Indian, still gesticulating, continued to approach the house with cautious step. Ethan put aside the rifle, and took the revolver, which he was careful that the messenger should see.

"Stop thyer!" said he, when the Indian had come within twenty feet of the house; and, at the same time, he elevated his pistol to enforce obedience to his order.

"Me talk," said the messenger.

"Well! what ye got to say?" asked Ethan.

"You got Wahena—little Wahena."

"Yes, sir!" replied Ethan, with emphasis. "I've got him, and I mean to keep him."

"No keep! We want Wahena," continued the messenger.

"No git him," added Ethan, who was inclined to be facetious at times, especially when the advantage was on his side.

"Lean Bear's son. Big Lean Bear—little Wahena."

"You can't hev him, nohow," said Ethan, decidedly.

"Me get Wahena—you go 'way—no kill, no hurt."

"You can't fool me."

"No kill, no hurt."

"No, yer don't!"

"Give Wahena—no kill, no hurt," repeated the messenger, impressively.

"You git out!"

"No give Wahena, Lean Bear kill!"

"Two kin play at that game," added Ethan, shaking his head. "Ef you don't quit, I'll kill the boy."

"No kill Wahena!" cried the savage, evidently horrified at the threat.

"Yes, I will, old boy, ef you don't all go off, and quit right away. I know what's what, 'n you can't fool me, nohow."

"Why not give up the boy, if they will let us go?" asked Fanny.

"You can't trust one o' them Injin creeturs no more'n you kin trust a rattlesnake, nohow. Jest fetch the boy here, and I'll show 'em what I mean."

Fanny had fastened Wahena's hands more securely behind him, and attached one end of the line to his neck. She had removed the cord from his ankles, so that he could walk, while by the rope at his neck he could be kept under perfect control. Ethan took the line, and led the boy out at the door, where he was placed in full view of the savages. His captor still held the leaded pistol in his hand.

"No kill Wahena!" shouted the messenger, fiercely.

"I won't hurt him ef you all go off—go 'way—clear out—quit the ranch."

"No hurt?" asked the Indian.

"All go 'way," answered Ethan, pointing to the west with the revolver.

"Give Wahena—all go."

"No, sir!"

"No give Wahena?"

"I'll kill him ef them creeturs come hyer," said Ethan, sternly, as he pointed the pistol at the boy's head.

"No kill Wahena!" shouted the messenger.

"Tell 'em to keep back, then."

This demonstration on the part of Ethan had been caused by the sudden movement of the savages towards the house. Their spokesman fortunately understood his meaning, and turning round, he shouted out a few words in the Indian dialect, accompanying them with violent gestures, which had the effect to stop the nearer approach of the band. As they moved back, Ethan lowered his weapon. Wahena did not flinch, nor exhibit any signs of terror while he was menaced with the pistol, though he looked stern and resolute, as he had probably been taught to be by his savage father.

Ethan, finding that he had the power all in his own hands, walked a few paces nearer to the messenger, dragging his prisoner after him. It was not an easy matter to carry on a conversation with the savage, whose knowledge of the English language was limited to a few words; but after a long time, and a great deal of effort, he succeeded in making the Indian spokesman understand his intention. He refused to give up Wahena, but he promised that the boy should not be injured if the Indians would retire, and not attempt to molest Fanny or himself. He assured the messenger that he would kill the boy if the savages followed, or fired upon himself or his companion.

It was a long and trying conference, and when the parties came to an understanding, the Indian withdrew to communicate the result to his chief. Ethan returned to the house with his prisoner, and from the window watched the movements of the foe, while he related to Fanny what had passed between himself and the messenger during the interview.

"I reckon they'll do it, Fanny," said Ethan.

"I hope they will."

"When we are safe, they kin hev the Injin boy; I don't want him. I reckon it was a smart idee o' mine, ketchin' the young cub."

"I think it was a very good idea. They would certainly have butchered us before this time if it hadn't been for him."

"I reckon they would; but ef I knows myself, some on 'em would hev gone down fust."

"I suppose the Indians have murdered a great many people."

"I reckon they hev."

"It's awful!" exclaimed Fanny, shuddering, as she glanced at the place where poor Mrs. Grant lay cold and still in death.

"So 'tis, but 'tain't no use to think on't now; it makes a feller feel kind o' weak and sickly. We must figur' it out now."

"Thanks to your good management, we may yet escape."

"I reckon we will. Did you ever fire a pistil, Fanny?"

"No, but I'm not afraid to do so."

"Better take this, then, and I'll use the guns. I reckon it may be of use to you," added he, handing her the weapon. "Hokee!" suddenly exclaimed he, as he glanced out of the window.

"What is it, Ethan?"

"Them Injins is go'n off!"

"So they are."

"Mebbe they're comin' round to try us on t'other side of the house. Ef they be, I'm thar. You hold on to the little Injin, and I'll watch 'em."

Ethan went to a window on the front of the house, and soon returned with the gratifying intelligence that the redskins were actually moving off in the direction of the burning buildings to the west of them.

"How thankful we ought to be that we have been saved!" said Fanny. "Let us thank God with all our hearts, Ethan."

"We can't stop to do no more prayin' now, Fanny. Besides, we ain't out o' the woods yet."

"We need not stop to pray," replied Fanny, devoutly. "If the prayer is in our hearts, God will understand it."

"I'm thankful, I'm sure, as a body kin be. Now, you git together everything you kin find to eat, and I'll git a wheelbarrer to fetch 'em down to the lake. Ef we kin only git on the island, I don't keer for all the redskins this side o' sundown."

Wahena was tied up in such a way that he could not escape, and Fanny hurriedly collected everything in the shape of provisions which had escaped the depredations of the Indians. Ethan brought from the chambers an armful of blankets and bed-quilts, and the wheelbarrow was loaded with all it would contain. A bushel of potatoes, a leg of bacon, a bucket of corn-meal, a small supply of groceries, and a few cooking utensils, constituted the stock upon which they were mainly to depend for sustenance during their banishment from civilized life for they knew not how long a time. But both of the exiles were hopeful, though very sad, when they thought of the death and desolation they were leaving behind them.



CHAPTER XVI.

THE YOUNG EXILES.

Wahena, with his hands still tied behind him, was led by Fanny, while Ethan trundled the wheelbarrow, across the handles of which lay the two guns, ready for use if occasion should require. The Indians had halted on one of the little eminences of the prairie, and appeared to be watching the departure of the fugitives from their once happy home. Lean Bear was evidently very fond of his little son, who was a boy of bright promise, measured by the Indian standard. He had exhibited no concern for the mother while she lay senseless upon the ground, but he seemed to be willing to make any sacrifice, even to the curbing of his ferocious nature, for Wahena's sake.

The party of Indians on the knoll appeared to be impressed with the misfortune of their leader in the loss of his favorite son. Though the work of rapine and death was still going on in the settlement, they did not heed it. The messenger had probably represented to Lean Bear that Wahena would certainly be killed if he attempted to molest the little party, and the chief had withdrawn far enough to remove all temptation on the part of Ethan to execute his threat.

The wheelbarrow was heavily loaded, and it was hard work for the prairie boy to move it along over the soft soil. On a hill, just before the descent to the lake commenced, he paused to rest for a moment. He was in excellent spirits, and was proud of the success which had thus far attended his stratagem. He was confident that he should reach the island in safety, where, having the only boat on the lake in his possession, he was satisfied that he should be able to defend himself and his companion, especially with Wahena as a guaranty for the good behavior of the Indians.

Ethan was entirely satisfied with himself, and he was about to resume the march towards the lake, when his attention was attracted by a noise in the direction opposite to that in which Lean Bear and his party had retreated.

"Creation hokee!" shouted Ethan.

"What's the matter?" asked Fanny.

"Don't you see the Injins comin' out of the woods?" replied he, as he grasped the rifle, and raised it to his shoulder.

"Ho, ho, ho! He, he, he!" yelled the band of savages, as they rushed out of the covert of the trees, and ran towards the spot where Ethan stood.

"We are lost!" gasped Fanny, almost overcome by this new peril.

"No, we ain't lost, Fanny. You keep a stiff upper lip. Lay right down on the ground, behind the wheelbarrer, and don't let the varmints see you. If they kim hyer, use that ere pistil."

One of the new enemies was considerably in advance of the others, as if anxious to drink the first blood of the victims before him. Suddenly he came to a halt, raised his rifle, and fired.

"Creation hokee!" exclaimed Ethan, as the ball whistled frightfully near his head.

"Hadn't we better run?" asked Fanny, in trembling tones.

"'Tain't no use to run; them redskins kin beat you all to pieces runnin'," replied Ethan, as he retreated behind the wheelbarrow, and resting the rifle upon it, took careful aim at the savage who was in advance of the others.

He fired; the Indian fell, and lay still on the ground.

"That's sunthin' towards it, anyhow," continued Ethan, encouraged by the success of his first shot. "Ef I kin fetch down one more on 'em, it will make the rest a leetle grain skeery."

"The other Indians are coming too, Ethan," said Fanny.

"Let 'em kim; if they do we are safe."

The immediate followers of Lean Bear were rushing towards the spot with all their might. The swiftest runner of the party had far outstripped his companions, but it was evident to Ethan and Fanny that he was moving towards the other band of savages, rather than towards them. He was shouting in his own tongue words which were unintelligible to the white boy and girl. But if the words were not understood, their effect was, for the hostile band presently halted, and awaited the arrival of the messenger.

In the mean time Ethan placed Wahena in a position where he could be seen by all the savages, and with the revolver in his hand, stood in readiness to make another demonstration at the life of the boy if it should be necessary. It was not needed, for all these Indians belonged to the tribe of Lean Bear, whose command was law to them.

"We are safe, Ethan," said Fanny.

"So we are; but I've killed one Injin, and I reckon I could kill some more."

"Don't you feel sorry you killed him?" asked Fanny.

"Not ef I knows myself, I don't. I'd like to kill the whole boodle on 'em, after what they've did, consarn thar picters! I reckon we'd better be go'n along."

"I think we had. It is really terrible to think of killing a man."

"'Tain't no more terrible 'n killin' all them women 'n childern up to the settlement," replied Ethan, as he raised the handles of the barrow and moved on. "I hope they'll send the sogers up here, and kill off all the Injins this side o' sundown."

"I hope it won't be necessary to do that," added Fanny.

"It ought to be did. What's them Injins good for but to be shot? I kinder wish they'd kim, so I could have fetched down some more on 'em, consarn 'em!"

"It is lucky the party of Lean Bear was near enough to turn them back. We might have been killed before this time."

"I dunno," replied Ethan, shaking his head.

"You have done nobly, Ethan; but Wahena has saved us so far."

"I know that; I ketched him for jest what he has did for us."

The rest of the way to the lake was down a gentle declivity, and the wheelbarrow moved more easily than before. In a short time they reached their destination, on the shore of the beautiful sheet of water at which was moored a boat. It was not such a craft as the Greyhound, in which Fanny had been accustomed to sail; it was a bateau, or flat-bottomed boat, with very sharp slopes under the bow and stern. It had a keel and rudder, and was provided with a sail.

The stores and utensils from the wheelbarrow were quickly transferred to the boat, and then the barrow itself was placed on board. The wind now blew tolerably fresh, and was fair for reaching the island; but Ethan, with all his other accomplishments, knew no more about the management of a boat than of a ship, which he had never even seen. This boat had been built by Mr. Grant and a carpenter of the settlement during the preceding winter, and Ethan had never sailed in it but once.

"I don't know nothin' about this hyer thing," said Ethan. "I kin paddle, but I reckon the sail would tip us over."

"I can manage it," replied Fanny, confidently.

"Kin ye? Did ye ever manage a boat with a sail?"

"Yes, once," answered Fanny, and she thought with shame of the cruise she had made in the Greyhound. "Let us hoist the sail, and we can run over to the island in a few moments."

Fanny, assisted by Ethan, hoisted the sail, and the bateau darted out of the little cove where she had been moored. Wahena, who had been as stoical in danger as his race, uttered an exclamation of alarm, perhaps called forth by the novelty of the situation and of the peril. Ethan was not entirely satisfied with the movements of the boat under sail, for she careened under the fresh breeze, till her gunwale was within an inch of the surface of the lake. Fanny took the helm, and, as she eased off the sheet, which her previous experience had taught her to do in such an emergency, the boat came up to an even keel, and the confidence of the prairie boy was fully restored.

"I don't want to be tipped over and drownded, arter we've got away from the Injins," said he, in apology for his timidity.

"I'm sure I don't fear the water, after the terrible scenes we have passed through," replied Fanny; "but there is no danger."

"I dunno 's there is; but even the little Injin boy was skeered when she tipped so."

"I ought to have unfastened this rope before we hoisted the sail," added Fanny, pointing to the sheet.

"I ain't afeerd, if you ain't, Fanny. I don't reckon we could 'a paddled her over to the island in seven year."

"It would have taken a long time," said Fanny, glancing back at the smoking buildings of the settlement.

She was sad at heart when she thought of the murder and destruction which had occurred that morning. It was pleasant on the lake, but neither Fanny nor Ethan was in a condition to enjoy the sail. Each was thinking of friends in the settlement who had probably been slain by the remorseless savages. Fanny steered the bateau in silence, till she reached the shore of the island, which was about two miles from the point where the party had embarked. It was very small, containing not more than half an acre of land. A single tree grew on the highest part, and all of it was covered with grass, like the ground on the western shores of the lake.

A landing was effected under the lee of the land, and the cargo of the bateau removed to the shore. Wahena was taken to the middle of the island, and fastened to the tree. From this point a view of all the surrounding country could be obtained, and with ordinary care on the part of the exiles, it would be impossible for an enemy to approach without their knowledge. The provisions and other articles were transported on the wheelbarrow to the tree.

"I should kinder like this, ef the folks hadn't all been killed off," said Ethan, when the work was done, and he had seated himself at Fanny's side, in the shade of the tree.

"We were very fortunate to escape with our lives, Ethan, and I feel very thankful," replied Fanny.

"So do I; and ef you want to say your prayers now, we hain't got nothin' else to do."

"I have said them many times; God can hear us even when we do not speak aloud."

"I s'pose so; well, I said mine, too; and that's a thing I don't do very often."

"I have no doubt they strengthened your arm, and made you feel brave."

"I dunno but they did; but I feel as though a leetle grain o' breakfast would strengthen my arm most jest now."

Fanny was not very well pleased with the manner in which her rude companion spoke of serious things, and she improved the opportunity to embody the prayer of her heart in words. It was a fervent utterance, and Ethan seemed to join her in spirit. Both of them were grateful—not abstractly grateful, but grateful to God for his mercy in saving them from torture and death at the hands of the savages.

They sat in silence for a moment after the prayer, and then Fanny suggested that they should prepare their breakfast. Ethan had brought with him a shovel and a sharp axe, and while Fanny was peeling the potatoes and cutting the bacon, he dug out a kind of fireplace in the side of the hill. Some dead branches from the tree supplied them with dry fuel. Fried ham and fried potatoes were soon provided, and they sat down to their morning meal.

"I should like this fust rate if we hadn't been druv away from hum jest as we was," said Ethan.

"It would be very pleasant if we could forget the poor people who have been killed and mangled by the savages," replied Fanny, sadly.

"I reyther like campin' out, and travellin' over the peraries, as we did when we kim up hyer."

"What is to become of us, after all, Ethan?"

"I dunno; we must stop hyer, I s'pose."

"We cannot remain here a great while."

"Why not?"

"Our provisions will not last many days."

"We kin git more."

"I don't think it is safe for us to go over to the settlement again."

"We've got plenty o' powder'n shot, and thyers ducks and birds enough. And this lake's full of fish."

"But we must leave some time. We could not stay here through the winter."

"We kin git off somewhar bime-by. I dunno what all this business means—whether the Injins is killin' off everybody or not. Sunthin' 'll happen one o' these days."

It was impossible to plan for the future, for no one could tell what a day might bring forth. It was evident to the young exiles that the lake settlement had been destroyed, and the greater portion of the people killed, though they had no positive knowledge of the extent of the horrible massacre. They did not know, what was really true, that the onslaught of the savages extended over hundreds of miles of territory, and that its victims were numbered by hundreds.

When Ethan and Fanny had finished their breakfast, Wahena was unbound and permitted to eat all he wanted. His appetite did not seem to be at all impaired by his imprisonment, for he ate with a greediness which threatened to make serious inroads upon the scanty stock of provisions. While he was thus occupied, Fanny sang one of her Sunday school hymns, a sad and plaintive air, which not only moved Ethan to the depths of his heart, but visibly affected the little savage. Noticing the effect, she followed up the impression until she was surprised to see Wahena offer her his hand.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE NIGHT ATTACK.

Fanny sang "Sweet Home" to the young Indian, with the feeling that there was no longer a spot on earth which she could call by that endearing name. By this time, Mr. Grant, with Bertha and Fanny, were in Europe, and it would be months before she could see them again. Her uncle had probably been killed by the war party of Lean Bear, while returning to his home, as the possession of his horses by the Indians indicated. Her aunt lay mangled and unburied near the house which had been her happy home. The settlement was doubtless broken up and deserted; for all who had not been killed or captured by the Indians must have fled to the woods and the prairies for safety.

The feeling of loneliness in Fanny gave to her song a touching pathos, which, with the sad sweetness of the melody itself, made the great tears roll down the bronzed checks of Ethan, and touched the heart of even the young savage. Wahena looked long and earnestly at Fanny, when he had finished his breakfast. The music pleased him, and its charms literally soothed his savage breast. She sang other songs, and he began to make friendly demonstrations towards her, which ended in the offer of his hand. She accepted the proffered token of friendship.

Wahena spoke to her, but of course she could not understand a word of his language. He made signs, using the earnest gestures peculiar to the Indians. He shook his head, pointed to her, and then to the shore of the lake in the direction of the settlement. She thought he meant to say that he would not permit his father to injure her; but she was not very sure. The young savage was certainly disposed to be her friend, and manifested his interest in her by all the means within his power.

"Well, Fanny, it's about time for me to go to work," said Ethan, after he had observed the demonstrations between her and Wahena for a time.

"What are you going to do, Ethan? I thought you had no work."

"Plenty of it, I reckon. 'Tain't no use to groan over what can't be helped. We may as well make the best on't."

"Of course we will not complain of what we cannot help. Ethan, do you know what my motto is?"

"Your what?" asked Ethan, with a vacant stare.

"My motto."

"That's sunthin' in Latin, or some outlandish lingo—ain't it?"

"Mine is in plain English."

"I've hearn tell of some Latin stuff they called a motto out in Illinois; I forgit what it was now."

"'Hope and have,' is my motto."

"What does that mean? 'Tain't Latin, but it might as well be."

"It means hope for the best, and then you will work the harder to have it."

"Thet jest fits my case."

"The motto was given me by a very good girl in New York, who was dying of consumption. They were the last words she spoke, and they were engraved on her tombstone. I will tell you the whole story about her some time."

"I should like to hear it, fust rate; but I reckon we've got sunthin' else to do jest now. I hope we shall hev sunthin' like a house for you to sleep in to-night."

"Hoping alone will not build the house, Ethan; besides, we don't hope much for that which we are not willing to work for."

"I know thet; and I'm go'n to work on the house right away now," replied Ethan, as he rose from the ground, and took his shovel.

"I will help you, for I hope we shall have a house to keep us out of the wet if it should happen to rain."

"You are nothin' but a gal," said Ethan, rather contemptuously.

"But I can help you. How shall you build a house?"

"Well, I don't quite know."

"I can help you think, if nothing more, Ethan."

"So you kin, Fanny. You are right down smart. I don't know as we should ever hev got over to this island ef't hadn't been for you."

"Do you think we could get the boat out of the water, Ethan?"

"I reckon we could," replied Ethan, rubbing his head to stimulate his ideas. "I kin cut some rollers, and kinder pry it along."

Fanny minutely detailed her plan for a house, which, after much explanation, was adopted. As soon as Ethan comprehended her idea, he became very enthusiastic for its execution.

"I reckon we must tie up the young Injin afore we go to work," said he, taking the cord, and moving towards Wahena.

The little savage looked appealingly at Fanny, placed his hand upon his breast, shook his head violently, and frequently pointed to the shore of the lake. She interpreted his signs to mean that he would not attempt to escape, and she so informed Ethan.

"I dassent trust him," said he.

"He can't get away if he tries," replied Fanny.

"But he may take one of the guns and kill one on us."

"Put all the weapons out of the way, then, and I will keep watch of him," added Fanny, who wished to conciliate Wahena.

Ethan consented, and climbing the tree with his axe, he commenced cutting off the large branches which were to be used in the construction of the house.

The plan which Fanny had devised was a very simple one. The slope of the land on the island was about four feet to a rod. The bateau was to be rolled up the acclivity about thirty feet, and turned bottom upward. The lower end was then to be gradually pried up until it was level with the upper end, leaving a space of four feet under the higher part. Stakes were to be set in the ground under the gunwale to support the boat, and form the sides of the house. The smaller branches of the tree were to be interlaced in the stakes, beginning at the bottom, and the sods and the dirt thrown from the inside against this network, leaving the ground level under the roof.

The bateau was sixteen feet long and five feet wide, and the most difficult part of the work was getting it out of the water, and moving it up the hill. Ethan and Fanny worked as hard as they could till sundown with rollers and levers, when they had the boat in position, and the end elevated to the required level. Wahena showed his gratitude for the freedom granted to him by assisting in the labor, and made himself very useful.

After the party had taken their suppers, Ethan made a bed of the blankets and quilts for Fanny, under the boat, covering the open sides with the sail and a coverlet.

"Where are you going to sleep, Ethan?" she asked.

"I ain't go'n to sleep nowhar," replied he.

"You are not going to stay up all night."

"That's jest what I'm go'n to do."

"What for?"

"S'pose'n them Injins should kim over in the night."

"I thought you said they could not get over here."

"I reckon they can't, ef I keep my eyes open."

"But you must sleep."

"Ef I do, I must do my sleepin' in the daytime. Ef we should all go to sleep hyer, we might wake up in the mornin', and find our throats cut. 'Tain't safe, nohow."

"You have worked hard to-day, Ethan, and you must be very tired."

"I am kinder tired."

"We will take turns keeping watch, as they do on board a ship."

"I don't know nothin' about a ship."

"I will keep watch the first half of the night, and you may the other half."

"S'pose'n the Injins should kim; what would you do then?"

"I can call you."

"Well, Fanny, ef you ain't very tired, I agree to it, for I feel jest as ef I should go to sleep now."

"I am not so tired as I have been, and not so tired as you are. I will take the first watch. But do you really think the Indians will come to the island?"

"I hope not, but they might."

"How do you expect them to come?"

"I dunno; but I shouldn't wonder ef Lean Bear sent some of his redskins over arter that boy."

Fanny did not see how the savages could reach them at this distance from the main land, but she agreed with Ethan that it would be better to keep watch, and be on the safe side. Wahena's hands were tied together, and he was bound to one of the posts under the boat, in such a manner that he could lie down and sleep comfortably. Ethan stretched himself on the bed he had prepared for his companion, and was soon asleep.

Fanny seated herself under the tree at the top of the hill. It was not yet dark, and she had a full view of the water on every side. Until a later hour there was no possibility of a hostile approach by the Indians, and she gave herself up to the melancholy reflections excited by the tragic events of the day. Though a great many thoughts passed through her mind, there was only one which it is important to record here; and that was, the feeling that she was better prepared for the bitter experience upon which she had now entered than she would have been a few months before. If her friends knew that she was a changed being, the fact was still more evident to her own consciousness.

A religious faith and hope had sustained her in those terrible hours, when the shrieks of the mangled and the cries of the dying had pierced her heart, and when torture and death stared her full in the face. Ethan, in his own quaint terms, had confessed that her prayers and her unwavering trust in God had awed him and solemnized his mind, thus raising him to a level with the momentous issues he was to meet. She felt that her prayers for herself and the brave prairie boy had been answered, not only in their effect upon themselves, but more directly in the turning aside of the knife which had been pointed at their hearts. Renewedly she thanked God for his goodness; and renewedly, as she thought of the dying Jenny, she felt that to hope was to have.

Thus thinking of the past, thus hoping and praying for the future, the darkness gathered upon her, and with her mind thus illuminated by divine wisdom, the words of the Psalmist seemed to be literally verified, and even the darkness became light about her. As the shades of evening deepened over her, cutting off her view of the distant shores of the lake, she felt the necessity of a more vigilant watchfulness.

Hour after hour wore heavily away, and still Ethan slept. Fanny had no idea of the time of night, and could not tell whether or not it was time to call her companion. She knew how hard he had worked during the day, and she resolved not to call him as long as she could keep awake herself. Her position was by the tree; but in order to rouse her torpid faculties, she took a walk around the island. When she reached the side of their narrow domain where they had landed in the morning, she was startled by what she thought was a slight splashing in the water, at a considerable distance from her. After the manner of the Indians, she lay down upon the ground, and placed her ear near the surface of the lake, listening with trembling interest for any sounds which might be borne over the still waters.

This expedient satisfied her that she had not been mistaken in the sound. She distinctly heard the light dip of a paddle in the water, worked with the utmost caution. She was almost paralyzed with terror at the thought of a night visit from the savages, and dreaded the sharp crack of the rifle and the flashing of the knife. She strained her eyes to discover any object on the water, but she could see nothing. She hastened to the house, and roused Ethan.

"I'm comin'," said he, only half awake, and turned over to finish his nap.

"Ethan, Ethan!" gasped Fanny, shaking him with all her might, "the Indians are almost upon us."

If she had said Indians before, it would have awakened him in a moment. He sprang to his feet, and rushed out of the house.

"What's the matter?" he demanded.

"The Indians are coming—at least some one is coming, for I heard a paddle on the lake."



"The pesky sarpints! I was afeerd they'd kim. Whar be they?"

"They are coming from the settlement."

"Consarn 'em!" added Ethan, as he grasped his two guns, and ran down to the shore.

He listened, and soon satisfied himself that Fanny's fears were not groundless. He sent his companion for the revolver, and proceeded with great coolness and self-possession to make his preparations for repelling the assault, for he had no doubt that one was intended. It was a full hour—an hour of the most intense anxiety and suspense to the young exiles—before they discovered the wily foe stealthily approaching their retreat.

A little later they could see enough to determine that the assailants consisted of four Indians, on a raft. Two of them, on their knees, were paddling the unwieldy craft, and the others appeared to be gazing at the island.

Ethan had made a rest for the rifle of a crotched stick, for the piece was too heavy for him to hold up to his shoulder. He took careful aim at the group of dark forms on the raft, and fired.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE VISITOR AT THE ISLAND.

"Ho, wo, wo!" yelled the savages on the raft; and their tones sounded much like the barking of a large mastiff.

Ethan saw one of their number fall, and the commotion in the group indicated that the savages had been thrown into confusion by Ethan's well-directed shot. They ceased paddling, and appeared to be consulting in regard to their next movement.

"Lay right down flat on the ground, so thet they can't see you, Fanny," said Ethan, as he hastily loaded the rifle, on which he principally depended.

"Won't they go away now you have found out they are coming?" asked she, as she obeyed the requirement.

"I dunno; we shall see. I don't keer much whether they go or kim. Keep still, and don't move. I reckon they can't see us, and don't know jest whar to fire."

"They can see you, Ethan."

"No, they can't," replied the resolute boy, as he took careful aim a second time with the rifle.

He fired, but apparently without any result, except another yell from the savages. Three of them could still be seen standing and kneeling on the raft. As soon as the second shot had been fired, they reached their conclusion, and commenced paddling with all their might towards the island. Ethan now took the fowling-piece, which he had charged with duck-shot, and fired again. The Indians yelled as before, and one of them seemed to be wounded, for he ceased to paddle, and the third man immediately took his place.

Both of Ethan's guns were now empty; but he had the revolver, which was good for six shots, though the fire could hardly be effective at the present distance of the raft from the island. Keeping this weapon in reserve, he loaded the two guns again. It was very strange that the Indians did not fire at him, and he could not tell whether it was because they had no guns, or because they were afraid of killing Wahena. The party had probably been sent by Lean Bear to recover his son, and the success of the expedition was to depend upon finding the exiles asleep. The good judgment of Ethan had therefore saved them from the calamity of a surprise.

When Ethan had completed the loading of the guns, the raft was within four or five rods of the shore of the island, and the Indians were paddling vigorously, though the unwieldy craft they navigated moved very slowly through the water.

"Don't you stop here no longer, Fanny; 'taint no place for you, nohow. Jest crawl up to the tree, and keep behind it. Keep both eyes wide open tight, but don't let the redskins see you."

"But what will become of you?" asked Fanny, unwilling to leave her bold defender even for a moment.

"Never you mind me; go right off quick. Crawl up to the tree, and I'll soon fix 'em."

"Ho, wo, wo!" yelled the Indians, apparently satisfied that their work was accomplished, for the raft was within two rods of the shore.

Then one of them dropped his paddle, and, with an unearthly scream, leaped into the water, which was now so shallow that he could wade ashore. Ethan took good aim at this one, and fired. Though not killed, the sharp cry the savage uttered convinced Ethan that he was wounded. Without waiting to learn the effect of his shot on the rest of the party, he fired again at the same man, who was only partially disabled. The savage in the water, who had been the most dangerous assailant, uttered another yell of pain, and his companions seemed to be paralyzed by the continuation of the fire upon them. Probably they supposed the boy had but one gun, and, when he fired it, that he would not have time to load again before they could reach him. Ethan then discharged one ball from the revolver, which added still more to their confusion, for they were jabbering like wild turkeys.

"Go 'way!" shouted Ethan. "Go 'way, or I'll kill Wahena."

"No kill," replied one of the Indians, whose voice sounded like that of the messenger Ethan had met in the morning.

"Go 'way then!"

"Me go."

"Go then—consarn ye!" muttered Ethan, as, taking advantage of the confusion in the ranks of the enemy, he loaded the two guns again.

The two Indians on the raft helped the wounded one in the water to mount the platform again. Two of the three were evidently wounded, and it was not an easy thing for them to paddle the clumsy craft away from the island. One of the savages worked at the paddle for a while; but it was not till the more able of the other two assisted him that any sensible progress was made.

"Creation hokee!" exclaimed Ethan, when he was fully conscious that he had won the victory. "I've done 'em, Fanny!"

"Have they gone?" she asked, when she had joined him.

"They are go'n as fast as they kin; but I reckon they won't git back to the settlement till some time into mornin'. We're all right now, Fanny, and you kin go to sleep as soon as you've a mind to."

She was too excited to think of sleeping, and she sat with Ethan on the shore for an hour, talking about their deliverance from the peril that had menaced them. Fanny was devoutly grateful to God, who had again preserved them; and when she had uttered the prayer her heart would not permit her to keep back, she felt more composed, and retired to the cabin, where she soon dropped asleep from sheer exhaustion.

This was the only attempt made by the savages to capture the exiles on the island. The next day, they continued to work upon the house, interrupted only by a heavy shower in the forenoon; but the boat roof afforded them a perfect shelter from the pouring rain. It was three days before the house was finished; but when it was completed, the wanderers were as proud of it as though it had been a Fifth Avenue mansion. At night they took turns in keeping the watch; and when the house was done, both of the exiles were nearly worn out by the hard work they had done, and the loss of sleep to which they had been subjected. They decided that it would be best to rest a few days before they commenced upon certain additions which they contemplated.

The stock of provisions was already much reduced, and the question of supplies for the future demanded attention. There were plenty of fish in the lake, but none could be caught in the shallow water which bordered the island. It was necessary to go out a short distance, and Ethan found a couple of logs among some drift wood, gathered on the beach, with which he constructed a raft, just large enough to accommodate himself.

To prevent accidents, he tied together all the lines which had been used about the sail, and pushed off the length of his rope. There were fish-lines in the boat, and bait was obtained on the island. In an hour Ethan returned to the shore with a large muskellunge and half a dozen large lake trout. The problem of supplies, therefore, seemed to be solved, especially as there were abundant opportunities to shoot the wild duck, plover, and grouse, that visited the little domain of the exiles.

However pleasant it would be to follow out in detail the daily life of the residents of the isle, our space prevents us from doing so. A fortnight of severe labor and constant watchfulness was passed by the exiles, when a great event occurred to them. Ethan had one day moored out his raft the length of the line from the shore, on the side of the island where they had first disembarked, when his attention was attracted by an object on the water, in the direction of the settlement. He watched it with interest and anxiety, and soon ascertained that it was a raft, on which stood a single person, who was paddling towards the island.

Ethan immediately pulled in his raft, and went for his fire-arms, which he carefully loaded, in readiness for a hostile visit from a foe. The stranger approached very slowly, and the exiles were at last satisfied that he was not an Indian. As he drew nearer to the island, he waved a white rag, which was intended and understood as a sign of peace.

"Who can it be?" asked Fanny, greatly excited by the incident.

"I dunno; can't tell yet," replied Ethan.

"Do you think it is an enemy?"

"I don't reckon it is."

Both of them continued to watch the approaching visitor, until he had come within twenty rods of the shore. He did not look like any human being that Fanny had ever seen before. His clothes were tattered, and of all colors. Great patches of tent canvas were sewed over a tunic made of red and yellow blankets. He wore Indian leggins, and his head was covered with a coon-skin cap. His hair and beard, of grizzly gray, were tangled and matted in knots and snarls. Crossed on his breast were the straps by which were supported his powder-horn and shot-flask.

"What a strange-looking man!" exclaimed Fanny, when the raft had come near enough to enable her to make out the uncouth object upon it.

"I know him now," replied Ethan, "though I hevn't seen him afore for more 'n a year."

"Who is he?"

"Thet's Rattleshag."

"Who?"

"Rattleshag—leastwise that's the only name anybody knows him by. He's a hunter 'n trapper that goes roamin' round over the peraries."

"Where does he live?"

"He don't live nowhar; he goes travellin' round, livin' on the white folks and Injins. They say he is the best shot west of the Miss'sip."

"He won't shoot us—will he?"

"No; he won't hurt nothin'."

The raft came up to the shore, and the trapper landed.

"How d'ye do, Rattleshag?" said Ethan.

The strange visitor made no reply, but walked deliberately up to the young exiles, gave his hand first to Ethan, then to Fanny.

"Toler'ble, considering," said he, at last.

"Whar did you kim from?"

"Over thar," he answered, pointing to the settlement, and shaking his head.

"Anybody thar?" asked Ethan, anxiously.

"Injins."

"No white folks?"

"All gone: some on 'em's killed, and some on 'em's kerried off. Awful times, everywhar," added the trapper, shaking his head mournfully. "Whar's the Injin boy?"

"Up thyer," answered Ethan, pointing to the cabin where Wahena had been secured as soon as the raft was discovered, for another attack from the Indians had been anticipated. "You may let him loose again, Fanny."

She was always glad to perform this office for her captive friend, and she soon returned to the shore with Wahena.

"He's all safe—ain't he?" asked Rattleshag.

"Yes; we hain't hurt him; and he's as fond of Fanny as a pet puppy dog."

"Glad on't. I was tooken by the Injins over thar, and got nigh bein' skelped. Lean B'ar let me go to kim over here arter the boy," added the trapper.

"We can't let him go," said Ethan.

"I reckon you mought."

Ethan explained in what manner the presence of Wahena had saved them from the Indians.

"We can't spare him till we get out of the woods ourselves," added Ethan.

"Then I must go back and be skelped," replied Rattleshag, solemnly. "I promised Lean B'ar thet I'd git the boy, or else I'd kim back myself; and old Rattleshag never broke his word to Injin or white man."

"Thet's so," said Ethan, who knew the reputation of the trapper for simple honesty and fidelity.

"Hev you got a boat?" asked Rattleshag.

"Yes."

"Then I reckon we kin go down to Mankato. The sogers is drivin' the Injins back. Thyer's ben awful times all through the country; more 'n a thousand men, women, and children hes ben killed. I've trevelled all through from Big Stone, dodgin' the Injins all the way. They are as savage as painters. I kim down hyer to git away from 'em, but I found they'd ben hyer too," added the trapper, with another melancholy shake of the head. "It's awful."

Rattleshag over-estimated the number of victims to this terrible massacre, though it has been stated as high as seven hundred. He related to the young exiles his adventures in his long journey through the devoted region which had been the scene of so much cruelty and bloodshed. He told of the men, women, and children he had seen lying dead and mangled in the deserted settlements; of the wounded, starving, and dying fugitives he had met in their flight; and of the desolation which lay in the track of the merciless savages.

The listeners were appalled and horrified at the sad and bloody tale. Fanny wept, and Ethan with difficulty choked down the emotions which agitated him.

"What shall be did?" asked the trapper, at last. "Kin you let the boy go, or shall I go back and be skelped?"

"You certainly shall not go back!" exclaimed Fanny.

An earnest consultation followed, and a plan was soon agreed upon by which Rattleshag could be saved.



CHAPTER XIX.

THE INDIAN AMBUSH.

Fanny was the originator of the scheme by which it was expected to save the party from the ferocity of the Indians, and enable the trapper to keep his plighted faith with them. The exiles, accompanied by their new-found friend, were to descend the river in the bateau to Mankato. Wahena was to be taken with them to some point above their destination, where he was to be delivered to his friends, when his presence as a hostage was no longer necessary to the safety of his captors.

This was thought to be the only safe plan, for even Rattleshag did not pretend to believe that the Indians would not be treacherous when Wahena was no longer in peril. It was arranged that the trapper should return to Lean Bear, and inform him of the terms on which his son could be saved. He was instructed to tell the savage chief that Ethan could fire eight shots a minute, and that Wahena would surely atone with his life for any treachery on the part of the Indians.

Rattleshag put off on his raft again, and paddled towards the settlement. It was late in the evening when he returned with the intelligence that Lean Bear had accepted the terms, though very reluctantly, for they compelled him to send a party of his braves on a journey of seventy miles to receive Wahena when he was delivered up. Rattleshag had been obliged to argue the point with him; but the assurance that the boy would certainly be shot if he did not yield, induced him to comply. Six Indian horsemen were deputed to follow the boat on the banks of the river, and insure them against any attack from the wandering savages whom the exiles might encounter.

The next morning the bateau was lowered from its position, rolled down to the lake, and launched. The muscular arm of the trapper rendered this a comparatively easy task, and it was accomplished in a few hours. The mast was stepped, the sail bent on, and the rigging adjusted under the direction of Fanny, who was more familiar with such matters than either of her companions. Such provisions as remained were stowed on board, cooked ready for use.

At noon, with a fresh breeze from the westward, the party embarked, and, with Fanny at the helm, sailed for the outlet at the north-east corner of the lake. The party were very much fatigued after the hard work required in making preparations for their departure, and independently of the exciting circumstances of leaving the island home, and the prospect of soon being in a place of entire safety, they enjoyed the rest afforded by the voyage.

"What we go'n to do when we get to Mankato, Fanny?" asked Ethan.

"I'm sure I don't know."

"We hain't got no friends thar."

"Nor anywhere," replied Fanny, sadly. "I have no near relations now that my uncle and aunt are gone."

"I never had none; but I s'pose I kin go to work, as I allers did," added Ethan, cheerfully.

"I doubt not we shall find plenty of friends. I am sure that Woodville, where I have lived the last two years, will be open to me."

"I reckon we needn't borrow any trouble arter we git out of this scrape. Ef we could stand what we've gone through with, we hain't got nothin' to fear."

"I have no clothes but those I wear, and not a cent of money," added Fanny, rather disturbed by the prospect before her.

"I reckon 'twill be all right," said Ethan.

"I have no doubt it will. I do not mean to complain. We have so much to be grateful for, that it would be wicked to repine at our lot."

"Thet's my notion; and we won't think what we're go'n to do till we get to Mankato."

This was a wise resolve, though it would be rather difficult to carry it out. In a short time the bateau arrived at the outlet of the lake, and on the bank of the river the exiles discovered their Indian escort, which had been waiting since the middle of the forenoon for them. At this point the serenity of the voyage was interrupted, for the river was crooked, and the navigation often very difficult. The boat did not draw more than a foot of water, but in some places it was not easy to find even this depth.

Fanny found that all her slender knowledge of boating was called into use, for the bends in the river were so frequent that the boat was headed towards nearly every point of the compass within a single hour. Her progress was necessarily very slow, and the Indians on the shore soon began to manifest their impatience by grunting and growling. As the bateau proceeded, Fanny became more skilful in its management. She soon learned where the deepest water might be found, and instead of attempting to cut across the bends, she followed the current round the broadest sweep; but, with the best she could do, it was occasionally necessary for Ethan and Rattleshag to resort to the poles to push her over the shoal places.

At dark the question came up whether the party should continue the voyage during the night, or moor the boat, and sail only by daylight. Of course the Indians on the shore could not continue the journey without stopping to rest and feed their horses; but a consultation was had with them, and it was decided that the escort should divide into two parties, one on each side of the river, and ride forward ten or fifteen miles, then halt and await the coming of the boat. The river had received two or three large tributaries above the point they had reached, and the navigation was less difficult as the stream became broader and deeper.

"Now, Fanny, I reckon I kin steer this boat," said Ethan, after the arrangements had been made, and the escort had gone forward. "I will make up a bed for you for'ad, and you shall go to sleep. One on us kin sleep jest as well as not, all the time."

"I was thinking of that myself," replied Fanny. "We shall save a great deal of time if we can go by night as well as day."

"I reckon we shall; and the sooner we git to Mankato, the better we shall like it. The little Injin's gone to sleep now."

"Do you think you can steer the boat, Ethan?"

"I know I kin. I've been kinder watchin' the thing ever sence we started, and I reckon I know sunthin' about it," replied Ethan, as he went forward to prepare a bed for Fanny.

"Are you not tired, Rattleshag?" asked Fanny of the trapper, who sat forward of her, gazing intently down the river, and seldom speaking a word.

"No, miss, I'm never tired," he replied.

"Where do you sleep when you are travelling over the broad prairies?"

"Sometimes in an Indian tepee, but generally allers on the ground."

"While the boat goes along so well, two of us might sleep, for it is only necessary to have one at the helm."

"I kin stand it without much sleep, miss. I kin ketch a nap while I set here. I've often slep standin' up agin a tree when the wolves was thick about me. Old Rattleshag is tough and hard."

"Now your bed is ready, Fanny," said Ethan, coming aft.

"Thank you, Ethan; you are very kind, and I am tired enough to sleep like a log. Now, if you will take the tiller, I will see what kind of work you make of it."

Ethan took the helm, and at first made the usual miscalculations of an unexperienced steersman; but Fanny soon instructed him so that he steered very well, and she went forward to her couch. In a whisper she said the prayer which she never omitted, and covering herself with blankets, was soon fast asleep.

After dark, the wind was very light and baffling, but the river was not so tortuous in its course, and the progress of the boat was rather more satisfactory than it had been during the afternoon. Ethan was very considerate of his fair companion, and neglected her injunction to call her in a few hours. He had given the helm to Rattleshag in the middle of the night, and gone to sleep himself. At daylight the trapper was at his post, and both the young exiles were still sleeping away the fatigues of the preceding day. The boat had not yet come up with the escort, who had probably gone more than the fifteen miles agreed upon.

Rattleshag sat at the helm, gazing fixedly down the river. He looked like a statue, and he sat so still that it was hard to believe he ever had moved, or ever would do so. His long rifle lay at his side, at rest like himself.

The bateau was approaching a clump of trees which grew on the bank of the river, when the crack of a rifle was heard, and a bullet whizzed over the water. Rattleshag started, sprang to his feet, and grasped the tiller with his left hand, while the blood trinkled down the ends of his fingers from a wound in his right arm. He glanced hastily around him, and then, putting the helm up, ran the boat alongside the shore opposite that from which the shot had come. The bateau grounded in the shallow water, and her grating upon the gravel roused Ethan from his slumber.

"The Injins is firin' on us," said Rattleshag, coolly, as he took up his long rifle.

"Whar be they?" demanded Ethan, seizing his weapons.

"Over thar," replied the trapper, pointing to the clump of trees.

The first shot was now followed by a second, which fortunately hit none of the party. By this time Fanny was awake; but Ethan peremptorily bade her lie still, so that the hostile Indians could not see her. Near the point where the boat had grounded there was a group of trees, which promised to afford the voyagers a partial shelter from the bullets of the enemy, and Rattleshag thought they had better take a position there.

"Now run for it," said Ethan to Fanny, as he gave her the revolver.

"I am not afraid," she replied, as she took the pistol and ran to the covert of the trees.

Ethan and the trapper followed her; but the moment they showed themselves, the report of several rifles was heard, followed by the whistling of the bullets through the air, though the distance was so great that the shots were harmless.

"Now, we'll give 'em some," said Ethan.

"'Tain't no use," answered Rattleshag, seating himself on the ground behind one of the trees. "Don't waste your lead for nothin'. You can't hit 'em."

"But they have hit you. Are you hurt much?"

"No; 'tain't wuth mindin'."

"Let me do up your wound, Rattleshag," interposed Fanny, tearing off a piece of her calico dress for the purpose.

"The blood kinder bothers me, and you may," said the trapper, as he bared his muscular arm.

The ball had ploughed through the fleshy part of the arm, inflicting a severe, though not dangerous, wound. Fanny bound it up as well as she could, with lint made from her linen collar, and Rattleshag declared that it felt "fust rate."

Wahena was still in the boat, where Ethan had taken the precaution to tie him to the mast, after first binding his arms behind him. He still lay in the bottom of the boat, the consciousness of his own danger preventing him from showing himself.

"We mought hev to stop here all day," said the trapper, after they had waited some time for a further demonstration on the part of the Indians.

"As long as we are safe, we need not mind that," replied Fanny.

"I reckon we ain't safe much," added Ethan.

He had scarcely uttered the words before a savage yell was heard from the enemy on the other side of the river.

"They're jumpin' inter the water to kim over here," said Rattleshag. "I don't like to shoot 'em, but I s'pose I must."

"I like it," replied Ethan, who had not yet conquered his hatred of the redskins.

"Don't be 'n a hurry, boy. Don't waste your lead," interposed the trapper, as Ethan was taking aim. "There ain't no more 'n six on 'em in the water, and we kin afford to wait till they git a little nearer. We kin fire shots enough to kill the whole on 'em without loadin' up."

"Who be they?" asked Ethan, trying to be as cool as the hardy trapper.

"I dunno."

"Be they Lean B'ar's men?"

"I reckon they ain't."

"I was afeerd the redskins that kim down to keep us safe had turned agin us."

"I reckon they hain't. They'd be afeerd we'd shoot the boy."

The half dozen savages in the water were wading across the river towards the bateau, evidently in the belief that the party had deserted her. They continued to hoot and yell, while they advanced, as though they intended to storm a garrisoned fortress, instead of capturing a deserted bateau.

"I reckon thet'll do now," said Rattleshag, as he raised his long rifle to his shoulder, and aimed at one of the savages. "Don't you fire, Ethan, till I've done."

He discharged his piece, and fully sustained his reputation as a dead shot, for the foremost of the Indians dropped, and was carried down the stream by the current.



CHAPTER XX.

CONCLUSION.

"Don't you fire, Ethan," repeated the trapper, as the enthusiastic boy raised his gun. "No need o' killin' no more on 'em."

The remaining Indians in the water had discovered their mistake, and were making towards the opposite shore with all possible haste. They had not expected such a reception, and appeared to be glad to escape with no greater loss.

"Ho, ho, ho!" shouted other Indians on the shore.

"We are gittin' into a bad scrape," said Ethan, dissatisfied because Rattleshag had prevented him from firing at the savages. "There's more 'n a million on 'em over thar."

"Them's Lean B'ar's Injins that's yellin'. Don't you see 'em? They was nigh enough to hear the shootin' and the yellin', and they've kim back to keep them redskins from hurtin' on us—don't you see?" added Rattleshag, pointing over at the three mounted savages who had just dashed up to the bank on the other side of the stream.

"So they be; and hyer kims the rest on 'em."

At this instant the other three of the escort galloped wildly over the prairie, and before the voyagers could reach the boat the Indians intercepted them. Like those on the other side, they uttered wild yells, and seemed to be as much excited as though they had been actually engaged in battle.

The exiles had not intended to hold any communication with their escort, dreading the treacherous nature of the savages; and when the three Indians approached, Ethan promptly placed himself in a defensive attitude. Though the escort continued to yell, they did not offer to attack the voyagers. They stopped on the bank of the river, where the bateau lay. One of them dismounted, and leaped into the boat. With his scalping-knife he cut the bonds of Wahena, and taking the boy in his arms, bounded to the shore again.

Ethan's heart sank within him, when he saw that the captive, upon whose presence he had relied for the safety of the party, was wrested from them. Rushing forward with his rifle, he took aim at Wahena, disregarding the earnest remonstrances of Rattleshag.

"No shoot! no shoot!" exclaimed one of the savages—the one who had before acted as Lean Bear's messenger. "No kill, no hurt."

"Don't fire," pleaded Fanny. "If you should kill Wahena, they would butcher us all."

The Indian boy saw her as she stepped forward, and immediately began to talk in the most earnest manner to the savage who held him.

"No hurt!" shouted the spokesman of the Indians. "You go—no kill; no kill, no hurt."

Wahena, after struggling for some time with the brawny savage who held him, escaped from his grasp, and, to the surprise of the voyagers, rushed over to the spot where Fanny stood. Seizing her hand, he shook it warmly, and then began a series of violent gesticulations, which were at first unintelligible. He dropped on his knees, clasped his hands, looked up to the sky, and then beat his breast. He pointed to the boat, intimating by his signs that she was to go on board. She obeyed, and was followed by Ethan and the trapper. The party stepped on board, and to the astonishment of all, Wahena followed them, and took the seat he had occupied during the voyage.

Ethan and Rattleshag pushed off, and when the bateau began to move down the river, Wahena shouted to the Indians, and pointed down the river, indicating that they were to follow, as they had done before. The Indian boy's signs on shore were now interpreted to be an expression of his gratitude to Fanny for her kindness to him, and a prayer to the Great Spirit for her safety.

If the party in the boat were surprised at the singular conduct of Wahena, the Indians on shore were still more astonished; but he spoke a language which they could understand, and they sullenly resumed their march down the river.

The captive was now treated as a friend. Though he could not have known what the contract between his father and the voyagers had been, except so far as he had learned it from the subsequent events, he had voluntarily surrendered himself, and insisted upon seeing Fanny conveyed to a place of safety. Almost every day while they had been on the island, she had sung her sweet songs to Wahena, and he had listened to them with rapt attention. As the boat slowly went its way, he begged her by signs to sing, and she complied. He expressed his pleasure, which was shared by Ethan and Rattleshag, by the most eloquent signs.

During the day, Ethan and Rattleshag slept, while Fanny steered the boat. Wahena, no longer in bonds, kept close to her. He intimated in his dumb language that he wanted to take the helm, and gently took the tiller from her. He was soon proficient in steering, for there was now nothing to do but keep the boat in the middle of the river, and occasionally to trim the sail.

At night Fanny and Wahena went to sleep again, and the management of the boat was divided between Ethan and the trapper. The next morning the bateau had entered the Big Woods, and the sail was nearly useless, for the forest obstructed the wind, and the voyagers were mainly dependent upon the current of the river for the little progress they made; but on the afternoon of the third day of the journey, they came in sight of a town, which Rattleshag said was not more than twelve miles from Mankato. The Indian escort then hailed the boat.

"No go more," said the spokesman.

"I reckon 'twon't be safe for 'em to go any further," added Rattleshag.

Fanny ran the boat up to the shore, and Ethan, always dreading the treachery of the savages, kept his gun and revolver in readiness for immediate use. The time had come for Wahena to take leave of the party. He was profoundly affected at the thought of bidding adieu to Fanny; he did not appear to like Ethan or the trapper. He pressed her hand, looked very sad, and made his demonstrative gestures. She kissed him on the cheek, pointed up to the sky, and laid her hands upon his head. If she could have spoken to him, she would have expressed the wish that he would abandon the savage life of his people, and become a true man; and she would have been glad to teach him the religion of the Saviour, now so dear to her, and to show him how to hope and have.

Wahena turned slowly and sadly away from her, and walked to the Indians who were waiting for him. A stout fellow lifted him on the horse in front of him, and dashed away; but Fanny could see him trying to obtain a last view of her, as the savages entered the forest. She missed him very much as the boat continued on her course. The Indian boy was much attached to her, and she found herself much interested in him. She has not seen him since they parted, and probably they never will meet again in this world; but her blessing will go with him, and perhaps her gentle influence will soften his savage nature, and be reflected in his kindness to the white people with whom he may come in contact.

At sundown the bateau passed into the Minnesota, and at dark the party landed at Mankato, only three miles below the mouth of the Blue Earth, on which the last part of the voyage had been made.

We need not say that the party found plenty of warm friends; for when it was known that they were fugitives from the Indian massacre, every house and every heart was open to them. Troops in large numbers had gone forward for the suppression of the insurrection, and confidence was in a great measure restored. The place was full of people who had escaped, and the savages were being captured and sent hither for trial.

The party were accommodated at the house of a trader, who supplied them with all they wanted, both of food and clothing. It was now time to think of the future. By the merciful interposition of Providence, the exiles had been saved from death and captivity; but they had no home, and no relations. Fanny knew what a warm welcome awaited her at Woodville, and she was desirous of going there; but she had no money to pay for such a long journey. She mentioned her wish to the trader, and he promptly offered to advance her a sufficient sum to enable her and Ethan to reach their destination.

"Where are you going, Rattleshag?" asked Fanny, when her own and Ethan's future movements had been arranged.

"I dunno."

"Why don't you join the sogers, and help put down the Injins?" asked Ethan. "You are a dead shot, and they'd like to hev you."

"I can't do thet," replied Rattleshag, shaking his head.

"Why not? They want all the good men they kin git, and you'd be wuth a heap to 'em, for you know all about the Injins,—whar to find 'em, and how to trap 'em," added Ethan, with considerable warmth; and he was a little inclined to offer his own services.

"The Injins hes allers ben my friends, and I don't want to help kill 'em. They've ben abused, and thet's what made 'em rise up agin the whites. They've ben cheated out of their land, and then cheated out of the money they ought to hev fur it. I pity 'em, and I shan't help kill 'em. I shall go back to the woods when the fightin' 's over, and live like I allers did."

The next day Ethan and Fanny shook hands with Rattleshag, and bidding him a cordial good by, started upon their long journey to the eastward. The prairie boy was greatly excited at the prospect of seeing the great cities of the country through which he was to pass. On cars and steamers where it was known that the boy and girl were refugees from the great Indian massacre, they were the lions of the hour. They were often called upon to tell their story of peril and death, and every one was kind and generous to them. They were frequently invited to private houses on the journey; but they declined all invitations, and hurried on as fast as steam could convey them to their destination, and arrived at Woodville without even stopping to sleep a night on the way.

Mrs. Green gave the exiles a motherly welcome. The fact that the massacre had extended to the settlement where Fanny's uncle resided had been published in the newspapers, and the housekeeper and servants believed that she had been one of its victims. She was welcomed, therefore, as one who had come from the grave. Ethan was regarded as a hero at the mansion and in its vicinity, and became a person of no little distinction.

Ethan French was a young man of no little manliness and independence. After he had spent a week in idleness, and had told the story of his escape from the Indians till it had become tiresome to him, he began to look about him for a situation in which he could earn his own living. But Mrs. Green induced him to remain at Woodville until the return of Mr. Grant; and he worked in the garden and stable.

Without waiting for instructions from Mr. Grant, the housekeeper forwarded to the kind-hearted trader the sum of money which he had advanced to pay the expenses of Fanny and Ethan from Mankato to Woodville. The money was accompanied by a letter of thanks from Fanny.

In November, the family returned from Europe. Mrs. Green had already informed them by letter of the safety, and of the arrival at Woodville, of Fanny Jane, as she was called in the house. Mr. Grant and his daughters had suffered a great deal of anxiety on her account, after they read the intelligence of the massacre, and they were heartily rejoiced to meet her again, after believing for months that she was dead, or worse than dead—a captive in the hands of the barbarous Indians.

Ethan, awkward and unaccustomed to good society, was overwhelmed by the kindness of what he called the "grand people." He was invited into the drawing-room, and from him and Fanny a very correct account of their adventures was obtained.

"Fanny Jane, I can hardly believe you are the same girl I had in my charge," exclaimed Miss Fanny, when both stories had been told and discussed.

"But I am," said the orphan girl, with a blush.

"I am sure none of us would have behaved so well in the midst of such trials," added Mrs. Sherwood. "It is terrible to think of."

"You cannot tell how thankful I am that all this happened after my visit to New York," continued the returned wanderer. "I could not, if I would, banish from my thoughts the image of Jenny Kent, who led me to believe in truth and goodness, and to strive to live for them."

"I should hev been skeered to death ef't hadn't been for Fanny. She was so good that she made me feel strong."

"And this is our Fanny Jane!" added Mr. Grant.

"I have tried to be good all the time," replied Fanny, wiping away a tear she could not repress.

"And you hev been!" ejaculated Ethan, with emphasis. "Creation hokee! nobody couldn't do no better, nohow!"

The family could not help laughing at the earnestness of Ethan.

"She's been the makin' o' me, ef I ever do come out anywhere," he continued.

"I have taught him to believe in goodness, to hope for it, and then labor to have it," said Fanny Jane.

"Hope and have," added Miss Fanny.

Mr. Grant promptly decided that Ethan's greatest need was a better education, and the prairie boy went to school with Fanny during the following winter. In the spring he talked like a civilized being; did not say "hyer" for here, nor "kim" for come, and has banished "creation hokee" from the list of his pet phrases. In the summer he went to learn the trade of a machinist, for which he has decided taste and ability, and the prospect is, that he will become a good and useful man, if not a brilliant one.

Mrs. Kent's husband returned home during Fanny's absence, having been "sick and in prison" in the rebel country. When he had drawn his pay, he insisted upon returning to Mr. Grant the sums advanced to his wife by her kind friends; but they persistently refused to accept them. He wept over his lost child, and thanked God for raising up such friends for her while he was absent.

Fanny still resides at Woodville; and having now completed her school course, she assists Mrs. Green in the management of the house. She is still true to her high resolves; still wears the emblematic anchor, and strives to be as pure and good as Jenny was. She occasionally visits the grave of her departed young friend, and always gathers new inspiration and new strength for the battle of life, as she reads on the marble tablet her dying words—HOPE AND HAVE.

THE END