Slowly she grew normal once more. Years had passed. Instead of golden tresses, her hair was as white as the snow upon the mountain peaks. Yet she was still a young woman and good to look upon. Oak Heart loved her. He had treated her with the utmost respect and kindness. She had lived so long among the redskins that she had lost all distaste for them, and had imbibed many of their religious beliefs. She was unutterably opposed to the warring of the tribe with the whites, however. Her husband and children were dead--and the past was dead. She espoused Oak Heart so as to retain her influence over him and over the tribe, for the good of the whites. It was after that that Buffalo Bill met the Wise Woman and knew who she was. But he had never told her that her son was alive, for fear that the knowledge would do the poor woman more harm than good. Also, she had a child by Oak Heart--the White Antelope. But she died when the girl was small. Possibly thoughts of the dead woman moved the old chief. Besides, the peace-pipe was a sacred pledge. He suddenly rose, threw around him his blanket, and, standing in the midst of the lodge, spoke impressively: “The Pa-e-has-ka is a friend to Oak Heart. When the hatchet shall be buried between the red men and the palefaces, they shall be brothers again. But now the palefaces are on the trail of my people; so let the Pa-e-has-ka hasten from us and join his own tribe. Not one of my braves shall follow him. Oak Heart has spoken.” There were murmurs about the lodge, but no chief at the moment put his objections in words. Buffalo Bill found the White Antelope’s hand seeking his own. She acted more like a modest and timid white girl than ever before. “Let the white chief come with me,” she whispered. “I have something to show him.” The amazed scout went with her out of the grand lodge and was taken to her own teepee. CHAPTER XLIX. CONCLUSION. The wondering Indians allowed the White Antelope and Long Hair to pass. Inside the teepee an old woman kept watch and guard. A figure lay upon a heap of furs. It moved as the scout entered, raised on its elbow, and a weak voice exclaimed: “By the nine gods of war! Thanks be it’s you, Cody! I thought you’d never come, though this dear girl here swore you would, as you had promised her.” To see one whom we believe dead--aye, have seen lying stark on the field of battle and believe to have been buried there--rise up suddenly and confront us is indeed a shock. Buffalo Bill fell back a step, exclaiming: “Dick Danforth!” “’Tis I, old faithful! Thanks to this girl--who is the whitest Injun God ever made--I am alive, the sole survivor of my unfortunate party.” “Dick, I saw you lying on the field of battle,” declared the scout, taking his hand. “How came you here?”