An evil light came into White Wolf’s sinister eyes, and the fires of blood lust kindled in his breast. He went on the path of vengeance. The savage and the esthete are alike when the coveted male or female of their kind is taken by another. He was too crafty to wage open warfare and resolved to eliminate his rival in some way that would not arouse suspicion and resentment when he again sought Nebowie’s smiles. Old Moose Jaw smoked many pipes, and meditated philosophically over his daughter’s obstinate disregard of the compact with White Wolf. Nebowie’s mother had been dead several years, and the old Indian was easily reconciled to what appeared to be his daughter’s resolution to remain with him, for the little bark wigwam would be lonely without her. She went cheerfully about her various tasks, and never mentioned Little Turtle, until one day they came together and told him their story. As nothing had been seen of White Wolf for a long time, the old man assumed that his ardor had cooled, and finally consented to the building of the new Wigwam on the bayou bank near the Father of the Vines, where Nebowie would still be near him. He had no objections to Little Turtle and hoped that the obligation to White Wolf could be discharged in some other way. He rejoiced when the small black eyes of a papoose blinked at him when he visited the new wigwam one afternoon during the following summer. He spent much time with the little wild thing on his knee when she was old enough to be handled by anybody but her mother. He would sit for hours, gently swinging the birch bark cradle that hung from a low bough near the bank, for he was no longer able to hunt or fish, and took no part in the activities of the men of the village. Little Turtle’s prowess amply supplied both wigwams with food and raiment, and there was no need for further exertion. White Wolf had apparently recovered from his infatuation. He occasionally came up the river, but his connection with the affairs of the community, whose little habitations were widely scattered through the woods beyond the bayou, was considered a thing of the past. Little Turtle was highly esteemed by the men of his village, and two years after his marriage he was made its chief. The following spring delegations from the various villages along the river departed for a general powwow of the tribe, near the mouth of the St. Joseph, in the country of the dunes, about eighty miles away. Little Turtle and White Wolf went with them. Time had nurtured the demon in the heart of the baffled suitor, but there were no indications of enmity during the trip. The party broke up on its way home and took different trails. Little Turtle never returned.