“Are the white men after me?” she asked in a trembling voice.

“A-ha-ha.”  Sam replied.  “White man chase babby.”

“Why?”

Jean knew why, but she wanted to hear what the Indian had to say.

“White man find Seff dead by ribber.  White man act funny, much ’fraid.  Bimeby find babby gone.  White man much mad.”

He paused, picked up his musket which he had laid aside, and examined the priming.

“Did you see them?” Jean asked.

“A-ha-ha.  Sam see’m.  White man no see Sam.”

“Are they coming this way?”

“A-ha-ha.”

“Will you shoot them?”

“Sam shoot bimeby, mebbe.  White man no ketch babby.”

Of this Jean had no doubt.  What a tower of strength this Indian seemed to her just then.  The day before she had given up all hope of earthly aid, yet here was one, and a native at that, who was ready to protect her.  How wonderful it all appeared.  And it was against men of her own race he would defend her.  Of the savage Indian she had heard and read much.  But here were two of the despised race putting white men to shame.

In the meantime the Indian woman had been very busy.  She had gathered the few cooking utensils together, and was now rolling up the blankets and skins.  Presently Sam assisted her, and in a remarkably short time they were ready for their journey.

Jean begged to be allowed to carry something, but Sam shook his head as he pointed to her shoulders and feet.

“No strong,” he said.  “Feet leetle.  Bimeby Injun pack babby, mebbe, eh?”

“Oh, I hope not,” the girl smilingly replied.  “I must walk to-day.”

With their packs strapped upon their backs, Sam picked up his musket, and Kitty the axe.  With a final glance around to see that nothing was overlooked, Sam led the way among the trees, with Jean following, and Kitty bringing up in the rear.

All through the afternoon they pressed forward along the silent forest ways.  Occasionally the Indians halted that the girl might rest.  Their care of her was remarkable, and to them she seemed like a mere child.  It was quite evident that they had taken her to their hearts, and that nothing was too good for her.

Jean was surprised at herself for standing the journey so well.  Although very tired at times, she never once complained.  She was not accustomed to moccasins, and the roots and stones bruised her feet.  Up hill and down they moved, across valleys, swamps, and wild meadows.  There was no trail, but Sam led the way with an unerring instinct.  He chose the smoothest spots, but even these were hard for the girl’s tender feet.  Very thankful was she when at length he halted by the side of a little forest lake, and unstrapped his pack.

“Camp here,” he announced.  “Plenty water.”