“The council’s broke up. Here comes the officers now.” “P’int him out to me!” Farley hissed between his set teeth. And giving his gun into Bright Wing’s hands, he rolled up his ragged sleeves, revealing his knotted and sinewy arms. The officers emerged from General Clay’s tent. Captain Oliver was among them. He caught sight of Farley and, noting the woodman’s attitude and expression, walked up to him, saying: “You appear excited, my friend. What’s the matter?” The assembled militiamen grinned broadly; and the officers paused momentarily. But Joe kept his pale, watery eyes fixed upon the opening in the canvas wall and did not reply to the question. The Captain turned to Bright Wing with: “What ails your comrade?” “Ugh!” was the guttural response. “Joe him heap mad man. Him want fight much bad.” At that moment a tall, broad-shouldered young man appeared in the doorway. At his side trotted a magnificent bloodhound. “There he is—go fer him!” a mischievous militiaman whispered in Farley’s ear. Joe clapped his eyes upon the figure emerging from the tent, and, with a hoarse, inarticulate cry, staggered back a few steps and covered his face with his hands. Officers and men were astounded, and could only stand and stare. Bright Wing gave a grunt of surprise and satisfaction, and became a bronze statue. The hound ran forward and fawned at the feet of the two woodmen. Then the young man in the doorway shouted joyously: “Joe Farley and Bright Wing!” Joe dropped his hands to his side, and for a brief moment stood with mouth agape. Then with the cry—“It’s Ross Douglas hisself, alive an’ a-livin’”—he sprang forward and threw his long, bony arms around his friend’s neck. Bright Wing grinned broadly and muttered: “Dog Duke alive and here; Fleet Foot alive and here. Joe heap sight big fool. Ugh!” Duke capered about in mad delight, baying and whining by turns. Ross and Joe held each other at arm’s length and looked long and earnestly into each other’s eyes. Tears were raining down their cheeks, and their lips were trembling. An oppressive silence rested upon the little knot of soldiers who were watching the drama enacting before them. Of a sudden a militiaman broke the spell by shouting: “Well, if that don’t beat all the ways to lick a man, I’m a numbskull!” With shouts of laughter, the crowd gradually dispersed. Douglas tore himself from Farley’s grasp and, flying to Bright Wing, warmly embraced him. In return the Wyandot gave his friend a bear-like hug. Joe stood blubbering and wiping his weak eyes. For once in his life the power of speech had deserted him. Drawing the two together, Douglas said with deep emotion: “God knows how glad I am to meet you again—to find you alive and well! I’ve mourned you as dead.” Farley suddenly found his voice and replied: