The wounded missionary, lying in Big Tim’s bed, presided. Beside him, with an expression of profound sorrow on his fine face, sat Whitewing, the prairie chief. Little Tim and his big son sat at his feet. The other Indians were ranged in a semicircle before him.

 

In one sense it was a red man’s council, but there were none of the Indian formalities connected with it, for the prairie chief and his followers had long ago renounced the superstitions and some of the practices of their kindred.

 

Softswan was not banished from the council chamber, as if unworthy even to listen to the discussions of the “lords of creation,” and no pipe of peace was smoked as a preliminary, but a brief, earnest prayer for guidance was put up by the missionary to the Lord of hosts, and subjects more weighty than are usually broached in the councils of savages were discussed.

 

The preacher’s voice was weak, and his countenance pale, but the wonted look of calm confidence was still there.

 

“Whitewing,” he said, raising himself on one elbow, “I will speak as God gives me power, but I am very feeble, and feel that the discussion of our plans must be conducted chiefly by yourself and your friends.”

 

He paused, and the chief, with the usual dignity of the red man, remained silent, waiting for more. Not so Little Tim. That worthy, although gifted with all the powers of courage and endurance which mark the best of the American savages, was also endowed with the white man’s tendency to assert his right to wag his tongue.

 

“Cheer up, sir,” he said, in a tone of encouragement, “you mustn’t let your spirits go down. A good rest here, an’ good grub, wi’ Softswan’s cookin’—to say nothin’ o’ her nursin’—will put ye all right before long.”

 

“Thanks, Little Tim,” returned the missionary, with a smile; “I do cheer up, or rather, God cheers me. Whether I recover or am called home is in His hands; therefore all shall be well. But,” he added, turning to the chief, “God has given us brains, hands, materials, and opportunities to work with, therefore must we labour while we can, as if all depended on ourselves. The plans which I had laid out for myself He has seen fit to change, and it now remains for me to point out what I aimed at, so that we may accommodate ourselves to His will. Sure am I that with or without my aid, His work shall be done, and, for the rest—’though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.”

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