"Missionary, begone!" came the chieftain's command. "Thank
Wingenund's daughter for your life, not the God of your Christians!"
He waved his hand to the runner. The brave grasped Jim's arm.
"Good-by, Joe," brokenly said Jim.
"Old fellow, good-by," came the answer.
They took one last, long look into each others' eyes. Jim's glance
betrayed his fear--he would never see his brother again. The light
in Joe's eyes was the old steely flash, the indomitable
spirit--while there was life there was hope.
"Let the Shawnee chief paint his prisoner black," commanded
Wingenund.
When the missionary left the lodge with the runner, Whispering Winds
had smiled, for she had saved him whom she loved to hear speak; but
the dread command that followed paled her cheek. Black paint meant
hideous death. She saw this man so like the white father. Her
piteous gaze tried to turn from that white face; but the cold,
steely eyes fascinated her.
She had saved one only to be the other's doom!
She had always been drawn toward white men. Many prisoners had she
rescued. She had even befriended her nation's bitter foe, Deathwind.
She had listened to the young missionary with rapture; she had been
his savior. And now when she looked into the eyes of this young
giant, whose fate had rested on her all unwitting words, she
resolved to save him.
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