“Don’t, don’t, Wampum, boy!” choked the missionary, “It is wild, it is useless.  Stop, oh, stop!”

But he might as well have ordered a hurricane to stop.  With a splendid sweep of strong young arms, the boy whirled the axe in a circle above his shoulders and brought it down crashing with full force on the idol.  The figure split from top to base, the neck was severed, and the painted wooden head rolled ingloriously to the floor.  Then, amid a stony silence, more menacing than any words, the boy stood with squared shoulders and uplifted chin, his fierce beauty more imperial, more majestic, than ever before.

For an instant the black eyes of a hundred Delaware warriors glared at him with hate and bloodshed in their depths.  Then, with a furious yell, they turned to their chief for his commands, but old Single-Pine sat with bowed head, his face hidden in his hands, his lips silent.  A sullen murmur ran through the throng, but they knew their chief had at last taken the great step into Christianity; and while Wampum yet stood alone and unafraid, his axe in his hand, and the head of the ruined idol at his feet, the entire tribe filed past, and one by one shook hands with the white-haired old missionary, for, as faithful followers of their chief, they, too, must embrace the white man’s faith.

It was Fire-Flower who spoke first, touching the boy’s hand.  Wampum started, as if from a dream.

“Boy,” said the old hunter, “I have seen no man so brave.”

Wampum shuddered.  “My uncle,” he said proudly, “I have lived among brave people, but—­” here he shuddered again, for he was only a boy, after all.  “Oh, how black their eyes were, and how they hated me!”

“They never hated you as much as we love you,” returned the old hunter.  The word “love” had never passed his lips before, and Wampum knew then that not only had his courageous act brought the blessing of the white man’s God, but it had won for him the priceless friendship of this stalwart old Indian, whose wisdom and whose laughter would be shared with him through all his coming life.

The good missionary said never a word as they drove home through the dark, but as they parted for the night he laid his hand silently, gently, on the proud, dark young head.  No word was spoken, but the boy knew that a blessing was not always expressed in language, and that there are some kinds of courage that do not need scalps at one’s belt to show that one has fought a good fight.

The King Georgeman

I

“So the little King Georgeman comes to-morrow, eh, Tillicum?” asked the old Lillooet hunter.

“Yes, comes for all summer,” replied “Banty” Clark, “and I’ve got to be polite and show him around, and, I suppose, stay in the ranch house all the hot weather while his nibs togs up in his London clothes, ’don’t yer know,’ and drinks five-o’clock tea, and does nothing but stare at the toes of his patent leather shoes.  Pshaw!  What a prospect!  Ever see patent leather shoes, Eena?” asked Banty, with some disgust.