538 

she found one of the enemy, a young man, badly 
wounded. An arrow had pierced his groin, and 
the loss of blood had been great. He was so 
weak that he could scarcely speak or move. No 
Heart stuck many willow twigs in the ground 
about him, the more securely to conceal him. 
‘Do not fear,’ she said to him, ‘I will bring you 
food and drink.’ 
“She hurried back to her lodge and got some 
dried meat and a skin of water, put them under 
her robe and returned to the wounded one. He 
drank much, ate some of the food. No Heart 
washed and bound the wound. Then she again 
left him, telling him to lie quiet, that in the 
night she would return and take him to her 
home, where she would care for him until he 
got well. In her lodge she fixed a place for 
him, screening one of the bed places with a large 
cow skin; she also partly covered the smoke 
hole, and hung the skin across the entrance, so 
that the interior of the lodge had but little light. 
The women who sometimes visited her would 
never suspect that any one was concealed, and 
especially an enemy—in a lodge where for three 
summers no man had entered. 
“It was a very dark night. Down in the 
timber there was no light at all. No Heart was 
obliged to extend her arms as she walked, to 
keep from running against the trees, but she 
knew the place so well that she had little trouble 
in finding the thicket, and the one she had come 
to aid. ‘Arise,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘Arise, 
and follow me.’ 

“The young man attempted to get up, but fell 
back heavily upon the ground. ‘I cannot stand,’ 
he said; ‘my legs have no strength.’ 
“Then No Heart cried out: ‘You cannot 
walk! I had not thought but what you could 
walk. What shall I do? What shall I do?’ 
“*You will let me carry him for you,’ said 
some one standing close behind her. ‘I will 
carry him wherever you lead.’ 
“No Heart turned with a little cry of sur- 
prise. She could not see the speaker’s face in 
the darkness, only his dim form; but she knew 
the voice. She was not afraid. ‘Lift him then,’ 
she said, ‘and follow me.’ 
“She herself raised the wounded one up and 
placed him on the newcomer’s back, and then 
led the way out of the timber, across the plain, 
through the stockade, in which she had loosened 
a post, and then on to her lodge. No one was 
about, and they were not discovered. Within 
a fire was burning, but there was no need of the 
light to show the girl who had helped her. He 
was Long Elk. ‘We will put him here,’ she 
said, lifting the skin in front of the couch she 
had prepared, and they laid the sick man care- 
fully down upon it. Then Long Elk stood for 
a little, looking at the girl, but she remained 
silent and would not look at him. ‘I will go 
now,’ he said, ‘but each night I will come with 
meat for you and your lover.’ 
“Still the girl did not speak, and he went 
away. But as soon as he had gone, No Heart 
sat down and cried. The sick man raised up a 
little and asked, ‘What troubles you? Why are 
you crying?’ 
““Did you not hear?’ she replied. ‘He said 
that you are my lover.’ 
“*T know you,’ said the man. 
No Heart, but they lie. 
wish it were for me.’ 
““Don’t!’ the girl cried. ‘Don’t say that again! 
They call you 
You have a heart; I 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[APRIL 7, 1906. 

I will take care of you, feed you. As your 
mother is to you, so will I be.’ 
“Now, when night came again, No Heart went 
often out in the passageway, staying there 
longer and longer each time, returning only to 
give the sick man water, or a little food. At 
last, as she was sitting out there in the dark, 
Long Elk came, and feeling for the right place, 
hung up a piece of meat beyond the reach of 
the dogs. ‘Come in,’ she said to him. ‘Come 
in and talk with the wounded one.’ 
“After that Long Elk sat with the Arickaree 
every night for a time, and they talked of the 
things which interest men. While he was in 
the lodge No Heart never spoke, except to say, 
‘Eat it,’ when she placed food before them. 
Day after day the wounded one grew stronger. 
One night, after Long Elk had gone, he said, 
‘IT am able to travel; to-morrow night I will 
start homeward. I want to know why you have 
taken pity on me, why you saved me from 
death?’ 
““Tisten, then,’ said the girl. ‘It was be- 
cause war is bad; because I pitied you. Many 
women here, and many more in your village, are 
crying because they have lost the ones they 
Joved in this quarrel. Of them all, I alone have 
talked, begging the chiefs to make peace with 
you. All the other women were glad of my 
words, but they are afraid, and do not dare speak 
for themselves. I talked and feared not; because 
no one could bid me stop. I have helped you, 
now do you help me; help your women; help us 
all. When you get home tell what was done for 
you here, and talk hard for peace.’ 
**So I will,’ the Arickaree told her. ‘When 
they learn all that you have done for me, the 
chiefs will listen. I am sure they will be glad 
to stop this war.’ 
“The next night, when Long Elk entered the 
lodge, he found the man sitting up. By his 
side lay his weapon, and a little sack of food. 
‘I was waiting for you,’ he said. ‘I am now well, 
and wish to start for home to-night. Will you 
take me out beyond the stockade? If any speak 
you can answer them, and they will not suspect 
that their enemy passes by.’ 
““T will go with you, of course,’ Long Elk 
told him. Whereupon he arose, slung on his 
bow and quiver, the sack of food, and lifted his 
shield. No Heart sat quietly on the opposite 
side of the lodge, looking straight at the fire. 
Long Elk turned to her: ‘And you?’ he asked. 
‘Are you also ready?’ 
“She did not answer, but covered her face 
with he robe. 
““T go alone,’ said the Arickaree. ‘Let us start.’ 
“They went out, through the village, through 
the stockade, and across the bottom to the 
timber, where they stopped. ‘You have come far 
enough,’ the Arickaree said, ‘I will go on alone 
from here. You have been good to me. [I shall 
not forget it. When I arrive home I shall talk 
much for peace between our tribes. I hope we 
may soon meet again in friendship.’ 
““Wait,’ said Long Elk, as he turned to go, 
‘I want to ask you something: ‘Why do you 
not take No Heart with you?’ 
““T would if she were willing,’ he answered; 
‘but she is not for me. I tell you truly, this: 
She has been a mother to me; no more, no less. 
And you,’ he continued, ‘have you ever asked her 
to be your woman? No? Then go now; right 
now, and do so.’ 


“<Tt would be useless,’ said Long Elk, sadly. 
‘Many have asked her, and she has always turned 
them away.’ 
“*T have seen much while I lay sick in her 
lodge,’ the Arickaree continued. ‘I have seen 
her gaze at you as you sat talking to me, and her 
eyes were beautiful then. And I have seen her 
become restless and go out and in, out and in, 
when you were late. When a woman does that, 
it means that she loves you. Go and ask her.’ 
“They parted, Long Elk returned to the 
village. ‘It could not be,’ he thought, ‘that the 
young man was right. No, it could not be. Had 
he not kept near her these many winters and 
summers? and never once had she looked at him, 
or smiled.’ Thinking thus, he wandered on, and 
on, and found himself standing by the entrance 
to her lodge. Within he heard, faintly, some 
one crying. He could not be sure that was it, 
the sound of it was so low. He stepped noise- 
lessly in and carefully drew aside the door skin. 
No Heart was sitting where he had last seen 
her, sitting before the dying fire, robe over her 
head, and she was crying. He stole past the 
doorway and sat down beside her, quite close, 
but he dared not touch her. ‘Good Heart,’ he 
said, ‘Big Heart, don’t cry.’ 
“But she only cried harder when she heard 
his words, and he was much troubled, not know- 
ing what to do. After a little he moved closer 
and put his arm around her; she did not draw 
away, so then he drew the robe away from her 
face. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘why you are crying” 
“ “Because I am so lonely.’ 
““Ah! You do love him then. Perhaps it 
is not too late; I may be able to overtake him. 
Shall I go and call him back to you?’ 
“What do you mean?’ cried No Heart, staring 
at him. ‘Who are you talking about?’ 
““Ffe who just left; the Arickaree,’ Long Elk 
answered. But now he had edged up still closer, 
and his arm was tighter around her, and she 
leaned heavily against him. 
“*Was there ever such a blind one?’ she 
said. ‘Yes, I will let you know my heart; I will 
not be ashamed, nor afraid to say it. I was 
crying because I thought you would not return. 
All these summers and winters I have been 
waiting, hoping that you would love me, and 
you never spoke.’ 
“ “How could I?’ he asked. ‘You never looked 
at me, you made no sign.’ 
“It was your place to speak,’ she said. ‘Even 
yet you have not done so.’ 
“*T do now, then. Will you take me for 
your man?’ 
“She put her arms around his neck and kissed 
him, and that was answer enough. 
“In the morning, like any other married man, 
Long Elk went out and stood by the entrance 
to the lodge which was now his, and shouted 
feast invitations to his father and friends. They 
all came, and all were pleased that he had got 
such a good woman. Some made jokes about 
newly married ones, which made the young 
woman cover her face with her robe. Yet she 
was so happy that she would soon throw it back 
and laugh with the others. 
“In a few days came a party from the 
Arickarees, and the wounded young man was 
one of them—asking for peace. The story was 
told then, how No Heart had taken in the 
young man and brought him to life again, and 
when they heard it many a woman prayed the 
