He looked towards me for nearly a quarter of an hour, still trusting to the sharpness of his ears, when suddenly one of my men, who was coming down from the fort with two buckets to fill at the spring, could be heard whistling on the other side of the garden. The Indian started round, thrust his rifle through the fence, pointed at the spring, and knelt down behind its long barrel. At the same instant I sprang out from behind the oak, raised my gun, and sent the charge of the right-hand barrel between the savage's shoulders; he leapt up, and while doing so, I gave him the second charge, after which he fell backwards into the brushwood. I shouted to my man who, in his alarm, was running back to the fort, and rushed to the Indian, who was writhing in his blood and striking around with hands and feet. My comrade hurried through the garden, and clambering over the fence, gazed down at the shot man in horror. I explained to him in a few words how accident had preserved his life, as the savage had been lying in wait for him and had his rifle pointed at him, and I then buried my knife in the heart of the quivering savage. We took his rifle and medicine bag, fetched his horse after I had reloaded, and took it up to the fort, where we fastened it inside the enclosure. I impatiently waited for Tiger to obtain an explanation from him, as I feared lest the shot man might be a Delaware. The evening came and Tiger was not back yet. A thousand suppositions, a thousand suspicions involuntarily crossed my mind. Could Tiger be a traitor? could the Delawares have broken their long-tried friendship with the white men? We drove our cattle in earlier than usual, rode them down to water, laid our weapons ready to hand, and prepared to oppose any possible attack. I went to the eastern turret and gazed over the wide prairie, when I suddenly noticed far on the horizon a black point that seemed strange to me. I looked through my glass, and to my great delight recognised the large white spots of Tiger's piebald.