quickly sank down. He had heard a rustling at the
far edge of the clump, and he was sure, too, that he had seen a
shadowy figure. The figure had disappeared instantly, but Dick
was confident that a Sioux warrior was hidden in the bushes not
ten yards away.

It was his first impulse to retreat as silently as he could, but
the impulse swiftly gave way to a fierce anger. He remembered
that he carried a rifle and plenty of cartridges, and he was
seized with a sudden vague belief that he might strike a blow in
revenge for the terrible loss of the day. It could be but a
little blow, he could strike down only one, but he was resolved
to do it--he had been through what few boys are ever compelled
to see and endure, and his mind was not in its normal state.

He turned himself now into an Indian, crawling and creeping with
deadly caution through the bushes, exercising an infinite
patience that he might make no leaf or twig rustle, and now and
then looking carefully over the tops of the bushes to see that
his enemy had not fled. As he advanced he held his rifle well
forward, that he might take instant aim when the time came.

Dick was a full ten minutes in traveling ten yards, and then he
saw the dark figure of the warrior crouched low in the bushes.
The Sioux had not seen him and was watching for his approach from
some other point. The figure was dim, but Dick slowly raised his
rifle and took careful aim at the head. His finger reached the
trigger, but when it got there it refused to obey his will. He
was not a savage; he was white, with the civilized blood of many
generations, and he could not shoot down an enemy whose back
was turned to him. But he maintained his aim, and using some
old expression that he had heard he cried, "Throw up your hands!"

The crouching figure sprang to its feet, and a remembered voice
exclaimed in overwhelming surprise and delight:

"Dick! Dick! Is that you, Dick?"

Dick dropped the muzzle of his rifle and stared. He could not
take it in for the moment. It was Albert--a ragged, dirty,
pale, and tired Albert, but a real live Albert just the same.

The brothers stared at each other by the same impulse, and then
by the same impulse rushed forward, grasped each other's hands,
wringing them and shouting aloud for joy.

"Is it you, Al? How on earth did you ever get here?"

"Is it you, Dick? Where on earth did you come from?"

They sat down in the bushes, both still trembling with