The Tupelo journal., 1904-06-10

luG SdLle-UdS was q polidOi OuS
leather thing, and it's capacity appar-
emily unlimited. Old fishhooks and
tackle came first, rusted and rotten
from long disuse. Then hatchets,
horses'.3es, gopher-traps, doorknobs,
coils of wire, shot-pouches, rubber
gloves-everything, in short, that a
catch-all of such sort collects in the
course of 20 years. The last thing
brought up was an old hunting knife
an ugly-looking weapon, broad and
short, with a rude deer-horn handle.
The blade was rusted, and looked as If
not cleaned after it's last thrust.
The white hands touched it gingerly.
81 don't know what to do with all these
things after ALL" the woman said.
looking up into the quizzical eye OF
the tall young fellow, who came sing
ing Bonnie Doom" through the house.
whistled the dogs over from the
stable. stirred the drowsy canary into
a flood of song, and sent the cats
scampering away from the neighbor-
hood of the meat-safe. They were
your fathers things, Hal, when he
wasn't much older than you" she ex-
planned in the subdued tones in which
one instinctively refers to the dead.
But the duty on hand was temporarily
dropped when the boy announced that
a book agent was in the front hall,
and tho contents of the game-bag were
left in a heap on the floor.
C;Iyro hopt low nuar har tI1hc hut
now her eyes were wild. and every
nerve in her body tingled with excite
ment. The back Of her ~benefactress
was scarcely turned when the hunting
knife was swept into her hands and
s%tealthily concealed under her apron.
Her boy did not follow her actions,
but sat idly In the sunshine, watching
the lower branches Of the cedar filling
with it's tenants for the night. Mean
while the pile of clean clothes grew
with surprising rapidity. A wonder
full energy was at work rubbing, rims
ing, wringing, and soo the work was
completed, and the squaw departed
with her son.
The next weeks washing was accom-
plished with the same degree OF I'M
wonted energy. Sikra stood upright.
no longer ben and decrepit. Her hour
| of triumph was m The knife still
hung at her belt-the knife she had
watched Black Wing make from the
horn of the deer she had seen him kill.
At last Sikra had found a trace of one
of her mans murderers. This fact
worked itself slowly into her darkened
mind, for the knife in the game-bag
cried out Howe's implication in the
crime.
But now, at the very moment Of her
impending triumph, a shadow fell
athwart her CLEAN of hope. The boy,
| nurtured into stalwart manhood for
one end, looked at her listlessly when,
with dilated eyes and hushed voice,
she told him the story of her discovery.
| He did not seem to even hear her tale.
After a sleepless night, she went 10
rouse him and try again to wake the
vengeance in his blood, but he did not
know her.
Wild with apprehension, the old
squaw's first thought was of Mrs.
Howe, her n~ever-failing source of sue
cor. The kind eyes up at the white
house grew large with sympathy and
! dread. It's only a fever, Slkra,'
young Hal came forward to assure her,
and catching up his hat he followed the
distraught mother to her little hut.
The wild, black eyes that met his,
as he entered, startled him with their
ferocity, and the wilder words held
him on the threshold. But Sikra's
dumb look of appeal prompted him to
enter the room. The calm presence,
and the cool, firm hands of the white
boy seemed to lay the fever-devils.
And the thought that the fever might
be contagious was O~verbalanced in his
mind by the grief of the squaw mother.
He must not die; he must not die"
she walled. Il raise him for now:
For just nowi"
The weeks that followed were a grim
struggle with the fever-devils that
filled the Indian boys frame. When
his wild rawlings and threats of venge-
ance rose to shrieks and threatened
to exhaust the Pickering flame of life,
nothing but the cool, strong hands that
had first quieted him had any power
to calm him. So day after day the
struggle with the destroyer was
waged.
Poor old Sikra's heart seems set on
his accomplishing something before he
! dies" young Howe explained, one day,
to his mother. 1T is pitiful to see her
hopelessness whenever the symptoms
are d~iscouraging." And when others
said: Let the good-for-nothing red
| skin die; he is a menace to the neigh
borhood," the boys blue eyes flashed
his scorn at their sentiments. He is
all she has" he answered.
When at last they were able to say
to Sikra, HE will live" it was at
young Howe's feet she flung herself,
for it was Hal whose presence, she de-
clared. had saved her boy.
In time the old conditions of the two
households were re-established. Mrs.
Howe tried to be more c~onsiderate OF
the old squaw. Her selfless devotion
to her boy during those high-pressure
weeks had awakened a sympathetic
feeling in the mother-heart of the other
woman. But Sikra was more stolid
and glum than ever before-much, to
the surprise of the kindly lady of the
white house, who had been Sikra's one
friend. When she had fled from the
scene of the massacre, hunted and