"Does Skipping Rabbit sleep?"
"No."
"Is there not something in the great medicine-book that father speaks so
much about which teaches that we should love our enemies?"
"I don't know," replied the little one. "Bounding Bull never taught
that to _me_."
Again there was silence, during which Moonlight hoped in a confused sort
of way that the teaching might be true. Before she could come to a
conclusion on the perplexing point both she and her little friend were
in that mysterious region where the human body usually ceases to be
troubled by the human mind.
When Bounding Bull and Little Tim found that the Blackfoot chief had
escaped them, they experienced what is often termed among Christians a
great trial of faith. They did not indeed express their thoughts in
language, but they could not quite prevent their looks from betraying
their feelings, while in their thoughts they felt sorely tempted to
charge God with indifference to their feelings, and even with something
like cruelty, in thus permitting the guilty to triumph and the innocent
to suffer. The state of mind is not, indeed, unfamiliar to people who
are supposed to enjoy higher culture than the inhabitants of the
wilderness. Even Whitewing's spirit was depressed for a time, and he
could offer no consolation to the bereaved fathers, or find much comfort
to himself; yet in the midst of all the mental darkness by which he was
at that time surrounded, two sentences which the pale-face missionary
had impressed on him gleamed forth now and then, like two flickering
stars in a very black sky. The one was, "Shall not the Judge of all the
earth do right?" the other, "He doeth all things well." But he did not
at that time try to point out the light to his companions.
Burning with rage, mingled somewhat with despair, the white hunter and
the red chief returned home in hot haste, bent on collecting a force of
men so strong that they would be enabled to go forth with the absolute
certainty of rescuing their children, or of avenging them by sweeping
the entire Blackfoot nation, root and branch, off the face of the earth;
and adorning the garments of their braves with their scalp-locks for
ages to come.
It may be easily believed that they did not waste time on the way.
Desperate men cannot rest. To halt for a brief space in order to take
food and sleep just sufficient to sustain them was all the relaxation
they allowed themselves. This was, of course, simply a process of
wearing out their strength, but they were very strong men, long inured
to hardships, and did not easily wear out.
One night they sat round the camp fire, very weary, and in silence. The
fire was low and exceedingly small. Indeed, they did not dare to
venture on a large one while near the enemy's country, and usually
contented themselves with a supper of cold, uncooked pemmican. On this
night, however, they were more fatigued than usual--perhaps depression
of spirit had much to do with it--so they had kindled a fire and warmed
their supper.
"What are the thoughts of Bounding Bull?" said Little Tim, at length
breaking silence with something like a groan.
"Despair," replied the chief, with a dark frown; "and," he added, with a
touch of hesitation, "revenge."
"Your thoughts are not much different from mine," returned the hunter.
"My brothers are not wise," said Whitewing, after another silence. "All
that Manitou does to His children is good. I have hope."
"I wish my brother could give me some of his hope. What does he rest
his hope on?" asked Little Tim.
"Long ago," answered the chief, "when Rushing River was a boy, the white
preacher spoke to him about his soul and the Saviour. The boy's heart
was touched. I saw it; I knew it. The seed has lain long in the
ground, but it is sure to grow, for it must have been the Spirit of
Manitou that touched him; and will He not finish the work that He
begins? That is my hope."
The chief's eyes glittered in the firelight while he spoke. His two
companions listened with grave attention, but said no word in reply.
Yet it was evident, as they lay down for a few hours' rest, that the
scowl of revenge and the writing of despair had alike in some measure
departed from the brow of each.