very slowly and very quietly away, as though they wandered in search of
food. When well out of hearing, they sprang on their backs and circled
back to the creek-bottom.

Nearing this, they heard the occasional inharmonious notes of an Indian
flute among the trees. Instantly they recognized it as an Indian lover
calling for his sweetheart to come out from the lodges to him.

"Hold the ponies, Red Arrow. My medicine tells me to strike," and White
Otter slid from his horse. He passed among the tepees at the end of the
village, then quickly approached the direction of the noise of the flute.

The lover heard his approaching footsteps, for White Otter walked
upright until the notes stopped, when he halted to await their renewal.
Again the impatient gallant called from the darkness to his hesitating
one, and our warrior advanced with bared knife in one hand, and bow in
the other with an arrow notched.

When quite near, the Absaroke spoke in his own language, but White
Otter, not understanding, made no reply, though advancing rapidly. Alas
for the surging blood which burns a lover's head, for his quick advance
to White Otter discovered for him nothing until, with a series of
lightning-like stabs, the knife tore its way into his vitals--once,
twice, three times, when, with a wild yell, he sank under his deluded
infatuation.

He doubtless never knew, but his yell had found its response from the
camp. Feeling quickly, White Otter wound his hand among the thick black
hair of his victim's head, and though it was his first, he made no bad
work of the severance of the prize, whereat he ran fast to his chum.