l inharmonious notes of an Indian
flute among the trees. Instantly they recognized it as an Indian lover
calling for his sweetheart to come out from the lodges to him.

"Hold the ponies, Red Arrow. My medicine tells me to strike," and White
Otter slid from his horse. He passed among the tepees at the end of
the village, then quickly approached the direction of the noise of the
flute.

The lover heard his approaching footsteps, for White Otter walked
upright until the notes stopped, when he halted to await their renewal.
Again the impatient gallant called from the darkness to his hesitating
one, and our warrior advanced with bared knife in one hand, and bow in
the other with an arrow notched.

When quite near, the Absaroke spoke in his own language, but White
Otter, not understanding, made no reply, though advancing rapidly. Alas
for the surging blood which burns a lover's head, for his quick advance
to White Otter discovered for him nothing until, with a series of
lightning-like stabs, the knife tore its way into his vitals--once,
twice, three times, when, with a wild yell, he sank under his deluded
infatuation.

He doubtless never knew, but his yell had found its response from the
camp. Feeling quickly, White Otter wound his hand among the thick black
hair of his victim's head, and though it was his first, he made no bad
work of the severance of the prize, whereat he ran fast to his chum.
Attracted by the noise, Red Arrow rode up, and they were mounted. Cries
and yells and barking came from the tepees, but silently they loped away
from the confusion--turning into the creek, blinding the trail in the
water for a few yards and regaining the hills from a much-tracked-up
pony and buffalo crossing. Over the bluffs and across the hills they
made their way, until they no longer heard the sounds of the camp behind
them.

Filled with a great exultation, they trotted and loped along until the
moon came up, when White Otter spoke for the first time, addressing it:
"Pretty Mother of the Night--time of the little brown bat's flight--see
what I have done. White Otter is no longer a boy." Then to his pony: "Go
on quickly now, pretty little war-pony. You are strong to carry me.
Do not lame yourself in the dog-holes. Carry me back to the
Chis-chis-chash, and I promise the Mother of the Night, now and here,
where you can hear me speak, that you shall never carry any man but
White Otter, and that only in war."

For three days and