This one was Red Hatchet, a young Sioux chief, and as handsome a specimen of Indian manhood as could be found anywhere. Six feet in his moccasins, possessing a superb physique, quick as a panther in his movements, yet graceful as a deer, while his face was cast in an intelligent and noble mold, that bespoke spirit and an undaunted nature. He was a bold hunter, and was wont to come to the Bernard homestead with pelts for sale, and game, and he always found in the settler a ready buyer of what he brought. One afternoon he was on his way back to his village, when he heard a shot fired not far from the trail he was following, and then a cry, as if of pain, or alarm, followed by a second shot. The cry came from a woman's lips, he knew, and not an Indian's. Quickly he bounded toward the spot from whence the shots had come, and came upon a strange scene. A horse lay dead in the trail, and standing near was Jennie Bernard, the captive of two warriors. As he drew nearer Red Hatchet beheld a third brave lying dead upon the ground. It was the sweet face of Jennie Bernard that had drawn the young chief to her home more than to sell his pelts and game, and recognizing the braves as bad men of his tribe, yet of considerable influence, he rushed toward them determined to free the maiden. They heard his bounding footsteps, turned, and beholding that he came in anger, warned him off. But on he came, several shots followed, and Red Hatchet, bleeding from two wounds, stood by the side of the young girl, at whose feet, dead, now lay the trio who had been her captors. "They killed my horse, Red Hatchet, and as they ran upon me I shot that one. I owe you more than life, my good friend," said Jennie, and she grasped the hand of the young chief in both her own. He made no response, but stood in deep, seemingly painful thought, which, by a sudden intuition, Jennie Bernard seemed to read, for she said quickly: "Oh! this will cause trouble all along the frontier, for the Sioux will listen to no reason as to the killing of those three evil men." "The Snow Flower speaks the truth; but her lips must not tell the story, no Indian or pale face must know. The Red Hatchet will hide his bad braves in an unknown grave, their trails shall be covered up, and no one must know, only the Snow Flower and the Red Hatchet." "It is a fearful secret to keep, chief, yet I feel that you are right; but you are wounded, so come with me to my home." "No, the wounds of the Red Hatchet must not be known. They are nothing--to an Indian," and he seemed proud at the thought that to a white man they would be considered severe, indeed. "Let the Snow Flower go to her home. The Red Hatchet has work to do here," and he pointed to the bodies of the dead warriors. And so Jennie started on her way homeward, for she had several miles to go. Arriving there she told her father all, and he, too, said that the secret must be kept--the Indians must never know the truth.