She ran on in front, threw open the door to the little cottage, and entered. The picture remained with Warren always,--the bare room with unplastered floor and walls of rough boards; the rude fireplace filled with logs spouting flames; the feeble glow of the ‘grease lamp’; the rude chairs and tables. At one side, on a bed of skins, was extended the figure of a man. The old squaw was rocking to and fro and moaning. “Ah! my bird!” said old Nokomis, raising her withered hands. “It is no use--it is too late.” “What do you mean, Nokomis?” demanded Winona. “White Eagle has answered the call of the Great Spirit,” replied the old woman, with a sob. “Dead! My father!” The girl gave one quick, heart-breaking cry, and would have fallen had not Warren caught her in his arms. Gently he raised her, and followed Judah into another room, and laid her on a bed. “Ah,” said the lad, “how will she bear it if it is true, when she gets back her senses? How shall we both bear it?” “Come, let us see if nothing can be done for your father. Nokomis may be mistaken.” “Yes, true;” replied the boy in a hopeless tone. Back in the kitchen where Mr. Maybee was already applying restoratives. Warren began an examination of the inanimate form before them. It was the figure of a fine, handsome man of sixty years, and well-preserved. They stripped back the hunting shirt and Warren deftly felt for the wound. As he leaned over him, he gave a startled exclamation, and rising erect ejaculated: “This is no accident. _It is murder!_” CHAPTER III. “Murder!” The gruesome word seemed to ring through the silent room. “Murder!” ejaculated old Nokomis, aghast. “It is a mistake. Who would kill White Eagle? There lives not an Indian in the whole country round who does not love him. No, No.” There was horror on the face of the young man regarding her so steadfastly. Her withered, wrinkled face was honest enough, her tones genuine. “No!” exclaimed Mr. Maybee, recovering from the stupor into which Warren’s words had thrown him. “Blame my skin! where’s the blud?” Warren regarded him steadily a moment, then said, “Look! Internal hemorrhage.” He half raised the body and pointed to a bullet hole in the back. “By the Etarn’l!” was Maybee’s horrified exclamation. “Must ’a bled to death whilst we was comin’.” Warren nodded. “God in heaven!” cried Judah, sinking on his knees beside the bed of skins. “It is true! But who has done it? Who could be so cruel? No one lives here but ourselves. Murdered! My father! My master!” “Hush!” said Mr. Maybee, sternly. “Hush. ’Tain’t no time fer cryin’ nor makin’ a fuss. Tell us all you know about this business.” “He went out after supper to look after the canoes. In a short time we heard a shout and then a cry, ‘Help! help!’ and we ran to him, Winona and I. He was leaning against a tree, and said nothing but, ‘Get me to the house; get a doctor, I am hurt.’ We flew to do his bidding. The rest you know.”