I reckon, is just as smart,
if she war not so humble and skittish, as any of my own daughters."

"What," said Roland, "is she not then your child?"

"No, no," replied Bruce, shaking his head; "a poor crittur, of no manner
of kin whatever. Her father war an old friend, or acquaintance-like; for,
rat it, I won't own friendship for any such apostatised villians, no
how:--but the man war taken by the Shawnees; and so as thar war none to
befriend her, and she war but a little chit no bigger nor my hand, I took
to her myself and raised her. But the worst of it is, and that's what
makes her so wild and skeary, her father, Abel Doe, turned Injun himself,
like Girty, Elliot, and the rest of them refugee scoundrels you've h'ard
of. Now _that's_ enough, you see, to make the poor thing sad and
frightful; for Abel Doe is a rogue, thar's no denying, and everybody
hates and cusses him, as is but his due; and it's natteral, now she's
growing old enough to be ashamed of him, she should be ashamed of herself
too,--though thar's nothing but her father to charge against her, poor
creatur'. A bad thing for her to have an Injunised father; for if it
war'nt for him, I reckon, my son Tom, the brute, would take to her, and
marry her."

"Poor creature, indeed!" muttered Roland to himself, contrasting in
thought the condition of this helpless and deserted girl with that of his
own unfortunate kinswoman, and sighing to acknowledge that it was still
more forlorn and pitiable.

His sympathy was, however, but short-lived, being interrupted on the
instant by a loud uproar of voices from the gate of the stockade,
sounding half in mirth, half in triumph; while the junior Bruce was seen
approaching the porch, looking the very messenger of good news.

CHAPTER III.

"What's the matter, Tom Bruce?" said the father, eyeing him with
surprise.

"Matter enough," responded the young giant, with a grin of mingled awe
and delight; "the Jibbenainosay is up again!"

"Whar?" cried the senior, eagerly,--"not in our limits?"

"No, by Jehoshaphat," replied Tom; "but nigh enough to be
neighbourly,--on the north bank of Kentuck, whar he has left his
mark right in the middle of the road, as fresh as though it war but
the work of the morning!"

"And a clear mark, Tom?--no mistake in it?"

"Right to an iota!" said the young man;--"a reggelar cross on the breast,
and a good tomahawk dig right through the skull; and a long-legg'd
fellow, too, that looked