“Uncle,” said Minny, “I do wish you would tell me what the matter is, or what you are listening for.  You make me think there is something wrong.”

I looked up and seconded Minny’s request.

“’Spose I tell you, you think it all Ingin nonsense,” he said, looking a little embarrassed.

“Even if I did, sir, I should feel more comfortable,” I said.

“Yes, do tell us, please,” said Minny, earnestly.

“Well, then,” said the old man, speaking with an effort, “last night went out after a coon—­up in the woods right back of here—­”

“Yes:  well?”

“And went up on that little hill over your pasture, and then,” said the old man lowering his voice and speaking with great earnestness, “hear red fox bark—­one, two, three times out loud, and then again farther off.  There, now!”

I was greatly relieved at finding that I was threatened by nothing worse than the oracle of the red fox.  I knew the Indian superstition that if this animal is heard to bark anywhere near a dwelling, he foretells death within twenty-four hours to some one beneath its roof.

“But,” said I, “the red fox is only a sign for Indians.  He does not bark for white people, and you were not under a roof at the time, so it cannot apply to you.”

“Don’t know!” said the Panther, shaking his head.  “Never know that sign fail.  Then here this little woman and this baby—­all the same as Ingin now.”

Minny looked a little troubled.  In spite of his reading, his college education and mathematics, Wyanota had sundry queer notions and superstitions, about which he very seldom spoke, but which nevertheless had some weight with him, and it is possible that he had in some degree communicated his ideas to his wife.

“I don’t believe in signs,” said Minny, but nevertheless she looked annoyed.

“So I thought,” said the chief with a little smile.  “Know mamma here think it all nonsense, or else come over this morning to tell her.  Then think she not believe it and not mind, and so keep quiet.  Then storm come up and wind blow, and couldn’t stand it; so set out and walk over here to take care of her; and she—­maybe she laugh at me?”

“No indeed, sir,” said I, greatly touched by the anxious affection which had brought the old man so far in such weather.  “How good you are to me!  You mean to stay here to-night of course, and in the morning you will see that the red fox was simply barking for his own amusement; but I am sorry he drove you to take such a toilsome walk, though we are glad to have you here.”

“My business take care of you when your men gone.  Got no one my own blood,” he said, rather sadly:  “boys dead, girl dead, squaw dead—­no one but you two care much for old man.”

Minny went and kissed him softly.  “You know I belong to you,” she said, “and baby has no grandfather but you.”