A SPY IN THE REDSKINS' CAMP.

Now that the reader is aware that the pretended Brule medicine Chief Moon Eyes, was none other than Kit Carey, it will be well to watch his career in the camp of the redskins.

Speaking the language as he did, acquainted with all their superstitions and customs, and utterly devoid of fear, he had decided upon the bold move he had entered upon not only to endeavor to rescue Jennie Woodbridge from her merciless captor, but to discover all that he could regarding the exact fighting force of the hostiles, their means of subsistence, chances of holding out, and just how they were armed.

He was also anxious to know if there was any move intended in force in a dash upon the settlements, the agency, or by ambushing one of the commands that were encircling them.

As a Brule medicine man he could glean information without appearing to seek it, and he knew that his safety lay in not standing inspection in the broad glare of day.

He had assumed the name of Moon Eyes, pretending that only by night should he be seen and attend to his duties, and this gave him a chance to lie hidden by day, or rather keep within the shadow of his medicine tepee.

The Sun Gazer was equally anxious to be about only by day, and the vindictive old wretch lost no time in trying to ferment trouble.

Just who Moon Eyes was he did not know, but the stranger flattered the vanity of the old medicine chief to such an extent that he was willing to swear by him to the end.

Having returned from dispatching his courier to the general, Moon Eyes at once began to circulate all around the camps, still keeping up his incantations to the moon, until that orb went down behind the horizon.

In doing this there was method in the seeming madness of the fake medicine man, for he had discovered the position of the camps most completely, and all that he cared to know about the strength of the hostiles.

He found out just where the young captive was quartered, and he overheard enough, among a council of chiefs, to know that they were anxious to kill and scalp himself.

With the scalp of Kit Carey in their possession the chiefs thought that it would bring them luck and teach their white foes the lesson that they were in earnest.

In spite of his rank the Indians regarded Kit Carey as holding a most important position in the army, for it was by his deeds that they knew him, and the fact that he commanded the Indian soldiers clustered about their lines.

So it was decided to send out a young Brule warrior, bearing the very appropriate name of Not-Afraid-of-Death to kill the white captain, or any other army officer that he might be able to lead into a trap.

Having made the discovery that Not-Afraid-of-Death was to take the trail before dawn, Kit Carey returned to the medicine lodge, and told the old chief that he was to "go into the shadows of sleep," and not to be disturbed until he awoke after nightfall, for he was to see what fortune the moon held for the Indians.

Then he slipped again out of camp, and went to a position some distance from the retreat, where Not-Afraid-of-Death was to start upon his trail for an officer's scalp, his fondest desire being to raise the hair of Kit Carey.

Having secured a point of look-out, the white captain lay in wait for future developments.

Along in the morning Not-Afraid-of-Death was visible scouting along a ridge, as though he saw an enemy, for his every movement indicated as much.

He was a Brule, and with him was an Ogallala warrior, and the two ran in a crouching position to a certain point.

Who they were watching Kit Carey could not see, for the ridge shut their intended victim from his sight.

But soon after there rode into view an officer accompanied by an Indian scout.

Quickly Kit Carey drew his glass from beneath his robe and turned it upon the officer, who sat upon his horse reconnoitering the country before him. He gazed for a while through the glass, and then muttered:

"It is that splendid fellow, Casey, of the Twenty-second Infantry, and who has a command of irregular cavalry. He is too daring to venture thus far into the lines," added the white captain, seeming to forget what he was then engaged in.

Lieutenant Casey still sat upon his horse some distance from where Kit Carey was in hiding, and his glass swept the country thoroughly, taking in the dust as it arose under the hoofs of some Indian rider, and noting the plateau and buttes beyond, where was the camp of the hostiles.

Behind him was his sole companion, the Indian soldier, who sat like a statue on his horse, awaiting the will of the young officer.

"I wish I could get to speak to Casey and warn him off, for he is in great danger of a shot from some hostile scout lying in hiding; but I dare not make the attempt, for I would be seen, and that would end my career very quickly. But if I could only see him for half an hour's talk, I would be able to explain much, which I cannot write—ah! he is going—no, he is riding nearer to the hostiles' lines. Heaven grant he be not sacrificed to his recklessness. Great God! it is as I feared! poor Casey has got his death wound, but his slayer shall never have his scalp!" and Kit Carey threw his rifle to his shoulder as he spoke, and pulled trigger as soon as his aim fell upon the Indian bounding forward to scalp the daring Casey, who had dropped dead from his horse at the fire from an Indian, who had suddenly risen from behind the ridge near him.

At the shot from behind him Lieutenant Casey had thrown up his arms, and then fell from his saddle as his horse wheeled and ran off, while the Indian soldier in alarm had also fled at full speed.

The Indian bounding to secure the scalp of the young officer was Not-Afraid-of-Death, the Brule warrior, and he held his scalping-knife in hand, while from his lips burst a triumphant war-cry.

But from afar off had come a white puff of smoke, a faint report of a rifle followed, and then the sting of the bullet as it struck the Brule brave and bringing him down as he ran, his rapid impetus causing him to roll over and over again.

All day long the avenger watched the body of the young officer and his slayer, not daring to venture near, or leave his hiding-place, and then, to his joy, he saw the Indian soldier come in sight, followed by a party of cavalry, and, dashing up to the spot, carry off the body of the officer, while the Cheyenne scout quickly removed the scalp of the dead Brule, though he could give no account of his killing.

And then, as the evening shadows began to lengthen, the disguised officer made his way back toward the retreat of the hostiles, to once more play the daring role of spy in the hostile camp.