Alertness or watchfulness is sure to succeed the accomplishment of an enemy's designs. The moment danger is over, then the most vigilant preparations against it are made. The burglar knows better than to visit the same house two nights in succession. He is wise enough to wait until time has lulled the inmates into fancied security.

With such an interest at stake as had Harvey Richter, one may well believe that no precaution was neglected which could operate to defeat the designs of the savage whom he had driven in anger from his door. He changed his hour of visitation from the afternoon to the forenoon. Teddy needed no admonition against leaving the house during his absence. He kept watch and ward over the house as if he would atone by vigilance for past shortcomings.

The missionary had dwelt long enough among the Indians to gain a pretty accurate estimate of their character. What troubled him most, therefore, was a conviction that the savage's revenge, though delayed for ten years, for want of the convenient opportunity, was sure to be accomplished. He might have gone immediately to the north or east, there to remain with his own tribe until convinced that the moment had come to strike the blow—a blow, which no human influence, no personal danger, no suffering, could persuade him from inflicting upon the offending white man.

But there was no certainty even of delay. Did the savage believe the moment to strike propitious, he would be ready for the trial. Even then, he might be skulking in the woods, with his black eyes fixed upon the cabin. It will be perceived, that, did he contemplate the death of either of the parties concerned, he could have compassed it without difficulty. Opportunities offered every day for the fatal bullet to reach its mark; but the insult to the Indian was so great, that he contemplated a far sweeter compensation than death itself. Whatever that might be, time would be sure to develop it, and that, too, at the moment when least expected.

This fear became so ever-present and troublesome, that the missionary made it known in the village, where he could command the services of half a hundred warriors. A dozen at once made search through the woods to ascertain whether the savage was concealed anywhere in the vicinity. One of these chanced upon a trail, which, after following some distance, was lost in the river. This, however, he pronounced to be the trail of a white man. The suspected Indian evidently, had fled, and no trace was discovered of him.

Another source of annoyance was opened to Harvey. Since the shot at Teddy, nothing had occurred to remind them of the existence of the strange hunter, whose mysterious warnings had accompanied their advent into the country. Richter could not believe that the man had left altogether, but regarded his actions with considerable equanimity, as it was apparent that his warning shots were intended rather to frighten than to kill. Harvey never would converse with his wife about this white foe, and had cautioned Teddy not to allude to him in her presence. The missionary had a strong hope that, some day, he would be brought face to face with this stranger, when an explanation would be secured and the annoyance ended. He therefore repeated his warning to the Irishman not to shoot the hunter, unless compelled to do so to save his own life; but rather to use every effort to secure him and bring him to the cabin.

About a week after the occurrence narrated, Teddy went fishing, leaving the husband and wife together. He followed the shore of the river about a half-mile downward, when he settled himself by a huge rock that projected a few feet into the water. He had just thrown his line into the stream, when he heard the crackling of bushes behind him, and, turning, saw the hunter walking in a direction parallel with the river, with his head bent, as if in thought. Apparently he was unsuspicious of the presence of any one.

Teddy at once sunk down to screen himself as he watched the movements of his old foe, out of all manner of patience with himself that he had left his rifle at home, and possessed only the arms that nature had furnished him. Still, he resolved that the man should be secured, if possible.

"Arrah, now, be aisy!" he whispered, "and yees may cotch a fish that didn't nibble at yer bait. Whisht! but do ye saa him? But isn't he a strappin' fellow, to be sure—a raal shark ten foot long, with claws like an alligator!"

The hunter walked but a few rods, when he seated himself upon a fallen tree, with his back toward the Irishman. This was the coveted opportunity.

"Yees have got the fellow now, Teddy, barring yees haven't got him at all, but that ain't saying ye won't get him. Be aisy now, and don't get excited! Jist be as wise as a rat and as still as a mouse, and ye'll catch the catamount, if he don't catch you, that is."

These self-admonitions were much needed, for the fellow was all tremulous with excitement and scarcely able to restrain himself. Waiting a few moments until he could tone down his nerves, he commenced making his way toward his victim. He exercised extreme caution until within a rod, when a twig snapped under his foot. He made ready to spring, for he was certain of being discovered; but, to his surprise, the hunter made no motion at all. He evidently was so absorbed in some matter as to be unconscious of what was passing around.

Slowly and stealthily Teddy glided toward the man, until he arose almost to the standing position, not more than a foot distant. Then slowly spreading out his arms, so as to inclose the form of the stalwart woodsman, he brought them together like a vise, giving utterance at the same time to an exultant "whoop."

"Yer days of thramping this country, and alarming paceable inhabitants are done wid, Mister Anaconda. So jist kaal over gracefully, say tin Ave Marias, and consider yourself in the hands of Gabriel sint for judgment."

All this time Teddy had been straining and hugging at the hunter as if determined to crush him, while he, in turn, had taken it very coolly, and now spoke in his gruff bass voice:

"Let go!"

"Let go! Well now, that's impudint, ye varlet. As if Teddy McFadden would let go hook and line, bob and sinker, whin he had got hold of a sturgeon. Be aisy now; I'll squaze the gizzard and liver iv ye togither, if ye doesn't yield gracefully."

"Let go, I say! Do you hear?".

"Yis, I hears, and that is the extint—"

Teddy's next sensation was as if a thunderbolt had burst beneath his feet, for he was hurled headlong full half a rod over the head of the hunter. Though considerably bruised, he was not stunned by the fall, and quickly recovered. Scratching his head, he cried:

"Begorrah, but yees can't repate that trick!" making a rush toward his antagonist, who stood calmly awaiting his onset.

"By heavens, I'll give you something different then!" said the man, as he caught him bodily in his arms, and running to the edge of the river, flung him sprawling into it. The water was deep, and it required considerable struggling to reach the shore.

This last prodigious exhibition of strength inspired the Irishman with a sort of respect for the stranger. Teddy had found very few men, even among frontiersmen and Indians, who could compete with him in a hand-to-hand struggle; yet, there was now no question but what he was overmatched, and he could but admire, in a degree, the man who so easily handled his assailant. It was useless to attack the enemy after such a repulse; so he quietly seated himself upon the shore.

"Would ye have the kindness, ye assassinating disciple of the crowner's jury, whin yees have jist shown how nately ye can dishpose of a man like meself, to tell me why it was you run so mighty harrd whin I took once before after yees? Why didn't ye pause, and sarve me then jist as ye have done? I'd jist like to know that before we go any further wid this matter."

"It wasn't because I feared you!" said the hunter, turning sullenly away, and walking into the wood.

"Farewell!" called out Teddy, waving his hand toward him. "Ye're a beauty, and yees have quite taking ways wid ye; but it wouldn't be safe for me to find yees lurking about the cabin, if I had a rifle in me hand. You'd have trouble to fling a bullet off as ye flung me. Be jabers, but wasn't that a nate thing, to be sure. I'll bet a thousand pounds which I niver had, that that fellow could draw the Mississippi up-stream if he was fairly hitched on to it. Ah, Teddy, you ain't much, afther all," he added, looking dolefully at his wet garments.

Teddy had been so completely outwitted that he was unwilling any one should know it. So he resolved to continue fishing until his clothes were thoroughly dry, and until he had secured enough fish to repay him for his journey. It was near the middle of the afternoon, and, as he had remained at home until the return of the young missionary from the village, there was nothing to disturb his labor, or sport as it might be called, except darkness itself.

During this same afternoon, Harvey Richter and his wife were sitting on a bench in front of their cabin. The day was warm, but, as the bench always was shaded, it was the ordinary resort of the young couple when the weather was sultry. The missionary had been reading, but the volume was laid aside, and he was smilingly watching his wife as she sported with the boy in her lap. The little fellow was in exuberant spirits, and the parents, as a matter of course, were delighted. Finally he betrayed signs of weariness, and in a few moments was asleep in his mother's arms.

"I think it was a wise thing, for several reasons—that of changing your hour from the afternoon to the forenoon," said the wife.

"Why do you think so?"

"We all feel more wearied and less inclination at this time of day for work than we do during the earlier hours. We could then be little together, but now nothing interferes with our afternoon's enjoyment of one another's society."

"That is true; but you see the Indians are more likely to be off fishing or hunting during the earlier part of the day. They have willingly conformed, however, to the change."

"I think it is more in accordance with your own disposition," smiled the wife, "is it not?"

"Yes; I am free to admit that my lazy body inclines to quiet and rest after partaking of a hearty dinner, as I have done to-day."

"If we think of rest at this early stage in our lives, how will it be when we become thirty or forty years older?"

"I refer only to the temporary rest of the body and mind, such as they must have after periods of labor and excitement. Such rest the youngest as well as the oldest requires. Be careful, Cora, you don't drop the little fellow!"

"Never fear," laughed the mother, as the youngster woke and commenced several juvenile antics more interesting to the parents than to any one else:

"How lively!" remarked the proud father. "It seems to me I never saw a child at his age as bright and animated."

And what father does not hold precisely the same opinion of his young hopeful?

"Look!" exclaimed the mother, "some one must be coming to see you."

An Indian woman was discernible among the trees, walking along the path at a rapid walk, as if she were greatly hurried. Her head was bent, but now and then she raised it and glanced toward the cabin, showing that that was her destination.

Passing from the shadow of the wood into the Clearing, the missionary recognized one of the worst women of the tribe. She had scoffed at his preaching, had openly insulted him, and during the first month or two had manifested a disposition approaching violence. To this Richter only answered by kindness; he used every means to conciliate her good-will, but thus far with indifferent success. Her husband, The-au-o-too, a warrior favorably inclined toward the white man, was thoughtful and attentive; and the good minister wondered that the savage did not restrain these unwomanly demonstrations upon his squaw's part.

She approached with rapid step, until she stood directly in front of them. Harvey saw that her countenance was agitated.

"Well, At-to-uck," said he, kindly, "you seem troubled. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Well, At-to-uck," said he, kindly, "you seem troubled."

"Me ain't trouble," she answered, using English as well as her very imperfect knowledge would admit. "Me ain't trouble—me ain't."

"Who may it be then?"

"The-au-o-too—he much trouble. Sick—in woods—die—berry sick."

"What do you mean, At-to-uck?" asked the missionary, his interest strongly awakened. "Has anything befallen your husband?"

"He fall," she answered, eagerly, catching at the helping word, "he fall—much hurt—die—die—won't got well."

"Where is he?"

She spun around on one foot, and pointed deeper into the woods. "He dere—lay on back—soon die."

"And he wishes me to see him; is that it?"

She nodded her head vigorously, but made no answer for a moment. Then she suddenly broke forth:

"Send At-to-uck to git good man—hurry—berry hurry—he die—won't live. The-au-o-too say hurry—die soon—won't see good man—Riher."

Harvey looked at his wife. "What must I do, Cora? It will not do to leave you, as Teddy may not return for several hours, and yet this poor Indian should be attended in his dying moments."

"You should go, Harvey; I will not fear."

He turned to the squaw in perplexity.

"How far away is The-au-o-too?"

"Not much far—soon find—most dead."

"It may be," he said in a low tone, "that he can be got to the house, although it would be no easy matter for us two to bring him."

"I think your duty calls you to the dying man."

"I ought to be there, but I tell you, Cora, I don't like this leaving you alone," said he, impressively. "You know we made up our minds that it should never occur again."

"There must be occasions when it cannot be avoided, and this is one of them. By refusing to attend this man, you may not only neglect a great duty, but incur the ill-will of the whole tribe. You know the disposition of this woman."

The latter, at this point, began to give evidence of agitation, and to remark in her broken accents that The-au-o-too was dying and would be dead before they could reach him. The missionary, in sore perplexity, looked at his wife.

"Go," she said, or rather signified without speaking.

"I will," he said, rising with an air of decision. "God grant I may never regret this."

"I trust you never will."

He kissed the infant, embraced his wife and then signified to the squaw to lead the way.

"Keep up a good heart," he added, turning, as he moved away.

The wife smilingly nodded her head but said nothing. It did not escape the notice of her husband that there were tears in her eyes, and he half resolved to remain with her after all, but the next moment he moved on.

The squaw took the well-beaten track, walking very rapidly and often looking back to see that she was followed. Her strangeness of manner the missionary attributed to her excitement regarding her husband. Several times she exhibited hesitation, and once or twice muttered something that was unintelligible to him.

When they were about half-way to the village, she paused.

"Well, At-to-uck, what is the matter now?"

"Mebbe dead."

"Oh, I hope not," he answered, cheerfully. "Do you turn off here?"

She answered in the affirmative and asked him to lead the way.

"No; I am unacquainted, and you ought certainly to know where to find your dying husband better than I do."

She took the duty of guide upon herself again, and advanced but a rod, when she abruptly paused. "Hark! hear groan? Me hear him."

Harvey listened intently but heard nothing. Knowing that the hearing of the Indians is marvelously acute, he believed the squaw had heard sounds of distress; but, instead of quickening her steps, she now moved more slowly than ever.

"Have you lost your way, At-to-uck?"

"No," she answered, in a significant voice.

The suspicions of the missionary that had been slumbering were now fully roused.

"What do you mean then?"

The squaw turned full around and gave a leer which, if possible, made her face more hideous than ever. Without thinking Harvey caught her by the arm and shook her sharply.

"Explain this, At-to-uck. What is the meaning of this?"

"He-he-e-e-e! big fool. The-au-o-too hunt—no hurt!"

A sharp reproof arose to the missionary's lips, but deeming it would be lost upon such a person, he merely turned his back upon her and walked away. She called and taunted him, but he was the last man who could have been roused to anger by such means, and he walked, with his arms folded, slowly and deliberately away toward the path.

It had not occurred, as yet, to the mind of Richter that anything more than a simple annoyance to himself was contemplated by this proceeding; but, as he resumed his steps homeward, a suspicion flashed upon him which almost checked the beating of his heart. "God save it being so!" was his mental prayer, as he hurried forward. A moment later he was on a full run.

The afternoon was well advanced, but he soon caught a glimpse of his cabin through the trees. Before this, however, he had detected the outcries of his infant, which struck him as a favorable omen, and he abated his speed somewhat. But, as he came into the Clearing, his heart gave a great bound, as he saw his child lying upon the ground some distance from the house. His anxiety was so distressing that he dashed by it into the cabin.

"Cora, Cora, what is the matter? Where have you concealed yourself? Why this untimely pleasantry?"

He came out again, caught up the infant and attempted to soothe it, all the time looking wildly about in the hope of seeing the returning mother.

"CORA! CORA!" he again called in agonized tones, but the woods gave back only the hollow echo. For a few moments he was fairly beside himself; but, at the end of that time, he began to reason more calmly. He attempted to persuade himself that she might return, but it was useless; and with a sort of resigned despair, he looked about him for signs of the manner in which she was taken away.

The most convincing evidence was not wanting. The ground was trampled and torn, as if there had been a violent struggle; and, inexperienced as were his eyes, he detected the unmistakable impress of a moccasin upon the soft earth, and in the grass. The settle, too, was overturned and the baby lay in the grass as if tossed there by the act of some other arm, than a mother's.