Having securely fastened up Nero, Susan, with a heavy heart, proceeded to examine the ground around the hut.  In several places she observed the impression of a small moccasined foot; but not a child’s.  The tracks were deeply marked, unlike the usual light, elastic tread of an Indian.  From this circumstance Susan easily inferred that the woman had been carrying her child when attacked by the dog.  There was nothing to show why she had come so near the hut:  most probably the hopes of some petty plunder had been the inducement.  Susan did not dare to wander far from home, fearing a band of Indians might be in the neighborhood.  She returned sorrowfully to the hut, and employed herself in blocking up the window, or rather the hole where the window had been, for the powerful hound had, in his leap, dashed out the entire frame, and shattered it to pieces.  When this was finished, Susan dug a grave, and in it laid the little Indian boy.  She made it close to the hut, for she could not bear that wolves should devour those delicate limbs, and she knew that there it would be safe.  The next day Tom returned.  He had been very unsuccessful, and intended setting out again, in a few days, in a different direction.

“Susan,” he said, when he had heard her sad story, “I wish you’d left the child where the dog killed him.  The squaw’s high sartain to come back a seekin’ for the body, and ’tis a pity the poor crittur should be disappointed.  Besides, the Indians will be high sartain to put it down to us; whereas, if so be as they’d found the body ’pon the spot, may be they’d onderstand as ’twas an accident like, for they ’re unkimmon cunning warmint, though they an’t got sense like Christians.”

“Why do you think the poor woman came here?” said Susan.  “I never knew an Indian squaw so near the hut before?”

She fancied a dark shadow flitted across her husband’s brow.  He made no reply; and, on repeating the question, said angrily, “How should I know?  ’Tis as well to ask for a bear’s reasons as an Injin’s.”

Tom only staid at home long enough to mend the broken window, and plant a small spot of Indian corn, and then again set out, telling Susan not to expect him home in less than a month.  “If that squaw comes this way agin,” he said, “as may be she will, just put out any victuals you’ve a-got for the poor crittur; though may be she wont come, for they Injins be onkimmon skeary.”  Susan wondered at his taking an interest in the woman, and often thought of that dark look she had noticed, and of Tom’s unwillingness to speak on the subject.  She never knew that on his last hunting expedition, when hiding some skins which he intended to fetch on his return, he had observed an Indian watching him, and had shot him, with as little mercy as he would have shown to a wolf.  On Tom’s return to the spot, the body was gone; and in the soft, damp soil was the mark of an Indian squaw’s foot; and by its side, a little child’s.  He was