A cloud glided over the face of the moon, making the gloom of the pines deeper. Some time later the moon shone out again, lighting the way of the lovers, stealing back to their tepees. They had almost reached their respective lodges and Bud was chuckling to himself over the success of his scheme, when he caught sight of a tall brave standing by a wigwam watching them. Flying Arrow had risen to make sure that all was well in camp. Bud gave him a sneaking look as he passed, and caught the angry flash in the young chief’s eyes. Not a word was said, but Ankanamp felt that the Indian instinctively knew what had happened, and a withering fear struck his heart. He threw it aside, however, and rolled himself up in his blanket to drop into a heavy sleep. With the trustful Indian maiden, however, there was neither sleep nor peace. The maddening joy of requited love was battling in her soul with anxiety and fear all through the long still night. When morning broke it brought with it a strange new world for her. CHAPTER XIII AT SHADOW POOL A day or two after this Fred was up early and heading his cattle toward the good grass along Sage Creek. For several hours he watched them grazing among the willows; then as they began to quiet and lie down, he felt safe to leave them, while he kept tryst with Alta. She had not come when he reached Shadow Pool, so flinging himself on the grassy bank under the trees, he pulled out of his pocket a small volume and was soon lost in its pages. “Good morning,” came a cheery voice to break into his reverie, as Alta, bursting through the brush, reined Eagle suddenly on the gravel. Fred jumped up to greet her. “What’s the tale that charms you so?” she said, slipping from her horse. “Just an Injun story,” he returned, reaching out the book. “Hiawatha,” she read; “What’s it about?” “I hardly know; it seems to be a number of old Indian tales the poet has woven together about some big chief. The story is strange, but I rather like it.” “Read some to me,” she requested. “I’d rather hear you read,” he half objected. “That’s not fair; you know the story. Won’t you, please? I’m hungry to hear something good.” “Yes,” he responded, “if you really wish it.” They sat down on the grassy bank together and he began by telling her briefly the beginnings of the poem, the stories of the peace pipe and the four winds. “This myth of the morning star and the east wind is rather charming, I think,” and he read with appreciative feeling these lines: