“Here’s the cabin Violet occupies. You’ll enter with me; your friends will remain outside—on guard. The Indians are dissatisfied—restless—and ready for any desperate venture. I don’t think they’ll dare to interfere with us in any way—but they may. Caution your comrades to be discreet—to give no heed to threatening words and gestures, unless the savages offer to attack them.” Ross, turning to Farley, said in a low tone: “You and Bright Wing will keep Duke with you and guard the door. Do nothing rash—you understand?” Joe nodded gravely; and Ross continued: “We’ll transact our business and get out of here, as soon as possible; the place is unsafe. Be careful of your words and actions, and restrain the hound.” Again Joe nodded. For a wonder, he did not utter a word in reply. Just as father and son were about to enter the low door of the hut, the latter caught sight of a burly, thick-set Indian swaggering up to the spot. His fat and flabby features were grotesquely and hideously painted. He wore a complete suit of coarse cloth, and carried an English rifle. Nearing the group at the door, he stuck his tongue into his cheek and leered impudently. Ross started. There was something about the obese brave that seemed familiar; yet the young man could not recall that he had ever seen the bloated wretch. “Who is the greasy knave?” Ross murmured to himself. Farley caught the words and muttered in reply: “I don’t know—but I’ve seen him somewheres. He’s as sassy as a pet fox—he is, by Jerushy!” “Ugh!” Bright Wing ejaculated explosively—and was silent as a graven image. “Come,” John Douglas said, plucking his son by the arm. “Things are not to my liking. You must take Violet and be off.” Together the two passed into the cabin. The place was in semi-darkness. Ross heard a startled exclamation in the far corner of the room. Then he became aware that someone had arisen and was moving toward him. His eyes grew accustomed to the gloom; and he dimly perceived a sylphlike figure advancing toward the center of the floor. There it stopped. The murky light streaming in at the hole in the roof fell upon it. Ross Douglas distinctly saw a halo of red-gold hair, the outlines of a fair, sweet face—and murmured tenderly: “La Violette!” “Fleet Foot!” was the joyful exclamation. She stood leaning far forward, her hands clasped in front of her; but she did not offer to move nearer to him. Ross swept a hurried glance about the interior. He was alone with her; his father had left the cabin. The young man heard her quick respirations—saw her attitude of indecision—and opening his arms, he called softly: “I love you, darling! Come to me!” With a glad cry, she flew to him and nestled in his arms. He strained her to his breast—too happy to speak. At last he breathed into her ear the needless question: “Do you love me, La Violette?” Lifting her golden head and reproachfully fastening her violet eyes upon his face, she answered: