While Fred Linden and Terry Clark lay in that part of the cavern where the floor was of rock, the blanket of Deerfoot was spread on the earth. Consequently when the Winnebago brought down his knife with such vicious spitefulness, it went through the folds of the blanket and was buried to the hilt in the ground underneath.

You know that, despite the marvelous quiet with which the Winnebago approached the cavern, he was heard by Deerfoot, who, pausing only long enough to make sure that an enemy was approaching, whisked outside. There he stood in the impenetrable shadow under the trees, and saw the Winnebago at the moment he emerged into the faint moonlight and stood upright.

The first look confirmed his suspicion that it was the Winnebago, who had come back to avenge himself for the affair of the preceding day. Deerfoot smiled to himself, for there was a tinge of absurdity about the whole business that was sure to become still more so.

The Shawanoe paused a few seconds before darting out of the cavern, until he could arrange his blanket, so that it would appear as if it infolded his sleeping form, and then he quietly awaited events.

It must be admitted that it looked like leaving Fred and Terry in great peril to permit such a savage enemy to creep so close to them while they were sound asleep; but Deerfoot knew that the first thing that the Wolf would do would be to attempt his life, precisely as he did attempt it. Before he could do any thing more, the Shawanoe concluded to impress his presence upon the visitor.

At the moment, therefore, that the Winnebago stopped his advance and slowly raised his knife, as he supposed over the breast of Deerfoot, that gentleman, kneeling on one knee, brought his rifle to bear upon the Winnebago, the dull light from the fire shining along the barrel, whose muzzle was within a yard of the unsuspicious Wolf.

The blanket through which the keen-pointed knife had been driven was no more firmly transfixed for the moment than was the Wolf when a slight hissing noise caused him to turn his head, and he saw the dreaded Shawanoe in a kneeling position with his gun leveled at him, the finger on the trigger, and the bright eye glancing along the barrel.

The Winnebago was literally unable to move or speak, and Deerfoot, motionless himself, held him thus for several seconds. Then with the gun still pointed, he said in a low voice:

"Dog of a Winnebago! Deerfoot has spared the life of the Wolf, and he now seeks to strike him in the dark."

This address loosened the tongue of the terrified warrior, who, seeing his captor raise his head from sighting along the barrel, though he kept the weapon leveled, obeyed the beckoning motion of Deerfoot, and crept noiselessly out of the cavern. On the alert for any chance, he was ready to seize it, but the first object on which his eye rested in the dim moonlight was the figure of the young Shawanoe holding his gun in such a position, that, should it be necessary, he could fire like a flash.

Deerfoot would not have hesitated to lay his gun aside, and, drawing his knife, give the Winnebago the same chance with himself; but the Wolf had left his weapon where he forced it through the blanket into the ground, so that he had none except his tomahawk, and he was not likely to attempt any thing with that.

Besides, while Deerfoot had not the least fear of his enemy, he did not wish to fight with him. He did not engage in his many desperate encounters through love of victory, but because it had seemed to him that it was his duty, and there was no other way out of the trouble.

It must be said, too, that at this hour the Shawanoe happened to be in a mood which rendered such encounters more than usually distasteful to him. After he had closed his Bible and lay on his face, looking into the embers and meditating, the same thought that had stirred him many a time before filled his mind again.

Why do men strive to kill each other?

It was a question which has puzzled many a wise man in the past and has not yet been answered. Thousands of affectionate husbands unlock the white arms of the loving little children from their necks, kiss the heartbroken wife good-by, and then rush out to try to murder one whom they have never seen, who has also just torn himself loose from his family. There is something in the thought that mystifies beyond all explanation.

The problem which directly interested Deerfoot was whether the day would not come when the red men of every tribe could meet the pale faces in friendship instead of hatred. Why should they always be at war? Could he do a little to bring about that day of universal peace? Was there not some work which the Great Spirit had laid out for him by which he could help to soften the feeling of the two peoples toward each other?

But Deerfoot had asked himself the same question many a time before, and the only answer was that the most he could do was to follow the light within him: that is, aid to remove a part of the antagonism between the two races.

Alas, too, that while he was considering the question, his ear caught the soft rustle that told him one of his own race was seeking his life. Deerfoot was sorrowed more than angered. He wished that the Winnebago had taken some other time to make his stealthy attack.

Joined to this emotion was that of another akin to sympathy for the Winnebago in his complete discomfiture. He had come back to regain his rifle, but not only had failed, but had lost his knife, and now was standing at the mercy of a Shawanoe young enough to be his son. The latter resolved that, though the Wolf had earned death, he would not harm him, unless forced to do so in self-defense.

For half a minute the warriors, with ten feet separating them, looked straight at each other in silence. Fred Linden and Terry Clark slept soundly, for as yet there had been no noise sufficient to awake a light sleeper.

"Why does the Wolf seek the life of Deerfoot?" asked the latter, willing to relieve the embarrassment of the other.

"The Wolf sought the gun that had been stolen from him."

"But it was not hidden in the blanket, that he should drive his knife through it."

"The Wolf believed it was," was the curt response.

"Does the Wolf strike with his knife at his own gun?" asked the Shawanoe, without betraying any emotion.

"He would rather do so than that it should stay in the hands of an enemy."

"It never would have been in the hands of an enemy had the Wolf acted as a brave warrior; but he sought the life of the young pale face who had never done him harm."

"Has not his people stolen the hunting grounds of the red man?" demanded the Winnebago, who, seeing that some grace was to be allowed him, burst into the argument that multitudes of his people have used before and since. Before he could proceed further, Deerfoot asked: "Are these the hunting grounds of the Winnebagos?"

"They are the hunting grounds of his race, though they may not be of his totem; Deerfoot should join with his brother the Wolf in driving the white men into the sea."

"There was a day when that might have been done," replied Deerfoot, who felt that faint throb and thrill which sometimes came to him, as if to tell him that his Indian nature was not yet entirely dead within him; "once the pale faces were but a handful, and the red men hunted over all the ground that lies between the great waters. They could have swept the pale faces into the sea, but they would not be brothers with themselves; they fought each other. So the pale faces grew, and the day will never come when they need fear the red men."

"The brave warrior does not ask what can be done, but does with all his might that which he knows the Great Spirit wishes him to do."

"The Great Spirit does not tell him to kill his pale face brother; for they are all His children and He loves them. The Great Spirit has spoken to Deerfoot and told him that all His children should love one another."

"Does Deerfoot do so?"

"He does; he never strikes but when the Great Spirit tells him to do so; if he was the Wolf and the Wolf was Deerfoot, he would have slain the Shawanoe long ago."

The Winnebago would have denied this had he not seen that it was idle to do so. What would he not have given at that moment could he have exchanged places with the handsome and triumphant young warrior?

"The true Great Spirit loves all His children, whether they be pale or red or of the color of night; He smiles when they meet each other as friends, and He will reward in the spirit land those who do His will on the earth. Let the Wolf bury the words of Deerfoot in his heart, for they are the words of truth, and if they are heeded he will be happy—Go!"

The amazed Winnebago doubted for a moment that he had heard the command aright; but the wave of the hand which accompanied it, and the fact that it was in perfect consonance with the words he had just heard, satisfied him there was no mistake about it.

"The Wolf thanks his brother for what he has done."

The heart of the Winnebago forced the words between his lips as he turned his face away and walked down the bank of the stream in the direction whence he came. He vanished the next instant in the darkness.

Deerfoot did not stir until every sound of the soft footsteps had died out. Then he lowered the hammer of his gun, bent his shoulders slightly forward, so as to walk freely, and entered the cavern where his friends were still sleeping.