The sturdy little frame remained sturdy. Some children there are who persist in thriving under the most adverse conditions. And he was one of these. Yet, it must be admitted, his captors were kind; for the Indian--savage though he may be--deals gently, always, with his children; and this boy had become to them as their own. The baby words of the White Man’s tongue were soon forgotten, and Indian gutterals took their place. The little feet were moccasined with deerskin, and the round cheeks daubed with paint. The little body was kept warm in a rabbitskin robe. Their food was his food--grass seeds ground into paste, and game; and his friends were themselves. To all intents and purposes he had become an Indian. When, at length, he reached early manhood he took to himself an Indian bride. Then the tribe made him their chief. * * * * * Mines in the mountains had brought an army of prospectors into the once wild country. The mines prospered, and camps--permanent ones--multiplied. The Red Men saw their enemy growing in numbers beyond their strength to battle, so the depredations became fewer and fewer, and finally ceased altogether. “Lo” is something of a philosopher, and he generally accepts defeat with a better grace than his white brother. These knew they were beaten, so they were willing to accept peace; and began to mix, by degrees, with the Whites. They adopted the White Man’s dress--some learned his speech. The blue-eyed chief, too, whose position among them was never quite clear to the miners, again learned the language that seemed as one he had never known. It was a long time before he came to realize that his chains of captivity had dropped away--rusted apart by time and circumstances--and that he might now, if he so chose, go back to the people of his own blood. He thought of it dully, indifferently, at first--then deeply. The way was open for him! He could go! But he came to know that down in the depths of his heart an affection had grown up for these people who had made him their own, that no other people could lay claim to, ever. That for all the days of his life his lot was here. The awful events of that long gone day in the desert were too deeply branded into his recollection ever to be forgotten (young child though he was at the time); but the years had dimmed its horrors, and the associations of a lifetime had dulled his sensibilities. No! he would remain among them. As he had been, he would still be--one of them. He had lost all desire to go. How many years had come and gone since the longing for liberty left him? He could not remember. This was his home--these were his people--he would stay. And there he is today. There, a dozen years ago, a San Franciscan, drawn by the mines, found him; and during a summer’s companionship, gaining his confidence, learned from his lips his story.