h had brought him under the
conquering hand of the Big Black Brave with a Bushy Head. Now you can
understand what the Fighting Nigger meant, when, in answer to his little
master's "Let him go home to his mother," he had, with a snap of his
finger and thumb, exclaimed in Anglo-Congo lingo, "I yi, my larky!"

Accordingly, Burl gathered up all the weapons and accouterments of the
vanquished foe, where they lay scattered about the top of the
battle-hill, sticking the hatchets and knives about his middle and
hanging the powder-horns and ammunition-pouches from his shoulders. The
three Indians' rifles he tied together and gave to his prisoner to
carry, a burden he would hardly have laid undivided on the wounded youth
had he not foreseen that his little master, when weary of walking, must
needs be getting upon his back from time to time to ride till rested.
Then Betsy Grumbo being put again in biting order and shouldered, the
little party started forward on their homeward tramp--the young Indian,
at a sign from his captor, going on a little in advance, Grumbo coming
on a little in the rear, while Burl and Bushie walked hand in hand
between. The war-dog had regained his wonted grim self-satisfaction, as
could be seen by the iron twist of his tail over the right leg, and by
the peculiar hang of the lower lip at the corners as if he carried a big
quid of tobacco in each side of his mouth. Nevertheless, he still
maintained a wary watch over their red captive, whom he continued to
regard with undiminished jealousy and distrust, and to whose living
presence in their midst he seemed determined never to be reconciled.

Gaining the foot of the hill by an easier route, though less direct than
that by which the two giants had reached it, they found there the traces
of blood, which, reddening the grass at short intervals, marked the
turns made by Black Thunder's body after receiving the bullet sent after
him from his own rifle.

"Ugh!" exclaimed the Indian; and that was all.

"U-gooh!" exclaimed the negro, and a great deal more to the like
purpose.

Burl would have given his war-cap, the trophy of victory over the bears,
and gone home bare-headed--nay, bare-headed the livelong summer--could
he by that sacrifice have secured the scalp of the Wyandot giant, so
greatly did he covet this additional trophy of his victory over a
warrior so renowned. But the body was nowhere to be found, all traces of
it vanishing at the brink of the river-