At this the stranger grew angry and looked at the little boy so fiercely that he said no more, but Speckled Eagle was strangely troubled and felt that all was not right. When they had breakfasted the stranger ordered his bride to follow him to his camp, far down the river, where he had many beautiful gifts for her. Deerfoot did not want to go. The incident of the moccasins had frightened her, but her husband promised her they should return by sundown, so at last she climbed into the stern of his canoe, while the stranger took his place at the bow, and they paddled away down stream. Deerfoot looked back at the camp as long as she could see it, and watched Speckled Eagle and the little brother, Running Buffalo, waving to her from the shore. But at last a turn of the river hid them from view. For several hours Deerfoot and her husband went on down the river with the current, he paddling, she giving an occasional stroke, where the stream did not run as fast as usual. About noon-day it began to rain, a shower at first, then a downpour. As the rain continued to fall harder and harder, the bride suddenly noticed that the water was washing away her husband’s splendid white coat, and beneath it she could see black feathers and a long black tail. Then she knew what evil had befallen her. She had married a Crow, the bird of wickedness, whose tricky ways oft deceived the Indians. Deerfoot was very much frightened, but she began to plan her escape at once. With her small deft hands she tied the long black tail to the crossbar of the canoe, using a leather thong from her moccasins. “What are you doing?” asked the Crow, as he felt her fingers among his feathers. “Smoothing down your beautiful coat, and sewing on some of the beads that have become loosened,” she replied. “Ah, I see you are industrious, as a good wife should be,” he answered with a sly grin, but without turning. All the long afternoon they floated down the river, and as it drew on toward sunset the canoe glided along into a rushy, reed-covered marsh where the wild ducks made their nests. As the canoe slipped among the grasses, dozens of frightened birds rose in great flocks and flew across the marshes. “These shores are full of duck eggs, husband,” said Deerfoot, as she watched the circling birds. Seized by a sudden idea she cried: “Let me land here for a moment, and I will soon find a dozen for your supper.” Now the Crow was hungry, and the prospect of a dozen roasted duck eggs pleased him immensely. “You are a good wife,” he said, “but make haste--we still have far to go,” and he ran the canoe close to the shore. Before the keel had even grated on the pebbles, like the swift-footed deer for whom she was named, the Indian maid had sprung ashore and darted up the bank into the forest. She was soon out of sight speeding like an arrow through the woods, back to her mother, her brother, and her home.