This had been her reward, too, when a few days before she had laid before him a beautifully beaded pair of moccasins and a fringed and beaded buckskin shirt which she and his foster mother, Old Towano’s squaw, had made. Bud was really proud of that gift. After the feast came the dance. Decked in their gaudiest feathers and fringes, the young bucks and squaws came from their tepees to the chosen spot, a level, grassy plat near the middle of the camp. At a signal, they formed in a circle and began their jigging, rhythmic movements to the tune of the tom-tom. Pyrotechnic yells occasionally broke the monotony of the music. Bud did not join in the fun till some of the bolder young squaws grabbed and hustled him into the laughing group of dancers. Once started, he set the pace for the natives, much to their howling delight. The fun waxed warmer. The dancers began to leap and scream like dervishes. It became a midnight revel of the Redskins. Bounding and yelling and flourishing their arms, the savages looked like dancing demons--a wild, weird picture in the light of the August moon. The fun was flying fast and furious when a sharp warning signal from Old Copperhead checked every lip and limb dead still. Another signal and they broke from the circle to scatter into their wigwams. A few moments more and every human sound was hushed. Only the sighing of the pine trees and the gurgling music of the streams blended to break the solemn stillness of the night. But when all was quiet, two forms slipped out from beneath two different tepees and stole through the silent camp to meet each other in the shadow of the pines. It was Laughing Eyes and Ankanamp. A whispered word during the dance had brought them together at this trysting place. The Indian girl approached her burly lover shyly, half fearfully, and when he grabbed her hands, she shrank at their touch, drawing back with sudden impulse to turn and flee. But Bud pulled her close to him, and her love-filled heart held her there, instinctively resenting his rough caresses, yet yielding, slipping toward him as he poured his love flattery into her eager ears. “You say you want me?” she echoed him. “Sure!” “What you want me for?” “I heap like you.” “You no love me”; she jerked from him and turned to run away, but he grabbed her. “Oh, hold on, little one, don’t be so pertickler; sure I love you.” “You want-a make me your squaw?” “Yes, squaw, anything you like. I’ll fix it all right. Come on; you heap perty.” He threw his arm about her and kissed her glowing face upturned to his in the moonlight. “Me love you, me heap love White Chief,” she responded.