sleeping quietly, so following her husband, Kate was soon at the mission house. She rushed at once to the missionary’s side, and looking upon him lying there so still and white, a great cry of grief broke from her lips.
“Gikhi! Gikhi!” she called.
But for the first time no response came to her earnest appeal. The man who had led her out of darkness of heathenism was deaf to her voice. Wildly she looked around, and then up into Tom’s face.
“Is he dead?” she asked. “Has someone killed him?”
“It looks like it,” Tom replied, placing the forefinger of his right hand close to the side of the missionary’s head. “See! See! Blood! Gikhi has been shot! Bad! Ugh!”
Then a wild rage filled his heart. The spirit of revenge, inherited from countless generations of warriors, possessed him. The Gikhi, the man who meant so much to him, had been shot by an enemy! He surmised who it was, for no one but Bill, the Slugger, was in the neighbourhood. Swiftly he turned and spoke a few rapid words to his wife. He next set to work and built a fire in the stove. In a short time the genial heat was pervading the room. He then started to work upon the body of the missionary, rubbing the cold form and applying hot cloths.
Night passed, and morning dawned, but still Tom remained at his task. Could he ever bring life into that still form? But at length he was rewarded, for slowly a warmth returned to the body, and the beating of the heart could be detected. Kate went back to her own cabin to see how Zell was getting along, and returned ere long with a cup containing a little Indian
