And so the Lost Indian, with a broken heart, brain tortured, went back to the asylum--a child of the plains who bought his wife, but loved her for all that. For the Sioux, while selling their daughters, never sold them unless there was real evidence of true love. And while Big Jaw stole to make good his bargain, wasn't his deed an act of old-time knighthood after all? Moreover, his undoing was not so much because of his own delinquency as it was that of the white man's invention--whisky--that brought about his downfall. A thief, yes; a red-skinned, uncivilized wild man of the plains and the mountains. But can we classify him with the civilized white man who commits a crime? If the Lost Indian did not recover and win his bride in civilization's regulation way, perhaps it is just as well; and let us hope he is an angel in the Happy Hunting Ground. CHAPTER XII A SHE-BEAR AND HER CUB. Before my feet were thoroughly toughened--that is to say, when I was still to some extent a tenderfoot--I joined, single-handed, in an undertaking which had more chances for failure than almost anything that can be imagined. It wasn't a trip to the moon, neither was it an attempt to wipe out the then powerful Sioux nation, but it was worse than either of these. On Wagon-hound creek, one summer day, when our outfit was in camp for several hours, I strolled away from camp alone. It was early summer, probably July, and everything was green and fresh. Three miles from camp I came upon signs of life--the limb of a wild plum tree broken and hanging to the ground. The first impression was that there were prowling Indians in the neighborhood. The grass had also been trampled. The plums were only half ripe, and after gathering a few, I dropped over an embankment into the creek bottom, where I saw a large track in the soft silt; it was almost the shape of a human hand. There was a smaller one of the same character. These I followed, clutching a small "pop-gun" of the Derringer variety. After turning several curves of the creek I suddenly came upon my quarry--a big she-bear and a cub. The former snorted and made for me, and, sensibly pocketing my revolver, I lifted myself out of the creek bottom by grasping a convenient overhanging root of a tree; but almost simultaneously the she-bear was beside me. Then began as pretty a race as you ever witnessed. It is a pity none saw it.