“Squaw man,” was the Indian’s laconic answer, and as the squaw men had no distinctive names it was answer enough. But Lance grinned openly at this. “You don’t look like a squaw man, but a warrior, and your name, if I know it, is Black Bear. Now, if you are a squaw man, show me how that carcass ought to be cut up; and here is some money for you if you do it right.” Black Bear looked longingly at the money, but he was evidently not used to cutting up dressed meat, and he made no attempt at it. He grunted out something, and then strode off in the direction of the path up the mountain. “There you go,” apostrophized Lance, “and we shall see you before long with a firelock and a hatchet, and with a lot of other savages of your own kidney.” At dinner that day George told Lord Fairfax about finding the Indian prowling about the cellar, and Lance’s suspicions. The morning had been bright, but it grew so cold and snowy towards the afternoon that Lord Fairfax remained at home, and George took his ride alone. He had not gone but a few miles along the rugged mountain road when a furious snow-storm set in, and he quickly retraced his steps. It grew suddenly dark, but his horse was sure of foot, and George himself knew the way home perfectly. He galloped along through the darkness and the fast-falling snow, which deadened the sound of his horse’s hoofs. He was surprised, though, to see a number of tracks in the snow as he passed along. He instantly recognized moccasin tracks, and remembered Lance’s prediction that the alleged squaw man had some companions with him. At one point on the road George was convinced that he heard a low whistle. He stopped his horse and turned in his saddle, but there was no sound except the crackling of the trees as the wind swept through their bare branches, and the faint sound of falling water in the distance. As he sat his horse, a perfect picture of young manhood, two stealthy eyes were fixed on him, and Black Bear, concealed behind a huge mountain-ash, noiselessly and rapidly raising a firelock, took direct aim at him. The horse, which had stood perfectly still, suddenly started as a shot rang out, and a bullet whizzed past George so close that he felt the current of air it made. George was too astounded to move for a moment, but not more astounded than was Black Bear. Never in his life had the Indian made such a miss. Half a dozen pairs of beady black eyes had seen it, and the concealed Indians made a sign to each other in dumb-show signifying that the white youth had a charmed life. In another moment the horse, of its own will, as if flying from danger, started down the rocky road. George let him go on unchecked. He did not think the bullet came from the piece of a sportsman, and he had not forgotten Lance’s warning. When he reached the house he looked about for Lance, whom he found in the armory, carefully examining the muskets on the rack. Lance listened to George’s story of the shot very attentively.