The young man hesitated, for he loved his mother, and he knew it would grieve her to be told the expedition upon which he was going.

The eyes of his comrade flashed fire, and his lip curled scornfully, as he turned towards the son of Harpstenah.  “Are you afraid to tell your mother the truth,” he said, “or do you fear the ‘long knives’ [Footnote:  Officers and soldiers are called long knives among the Sioux, from their wearing swords.] will carry you a prisoner to their fort? I will tell you where we are going,” he added.  “The Dahcotahs have bought us whiskey, and we are going to meet them and help bring it up.  And now cry—­you are a woman—­but it is time for us to be gone.”

The son lingered—­he could not bear to see his mother’s tears.  He knew the sorrows she had endured, he knew too (for she had often assured him) that should harm come to him she would not survive it.  The knife she carried in her belt was ready to do its deadly work.  She implored him to stay, calling to his mind the deaths of his father and of his murdered brothers; she bade him remember the tears they had shed together, and the promises he had often made, never to add to the trials she had endured.

It was all in vain; for his friend, impatient to be gone, laughed at him for listening to the words of his mother.  “Is not a woman a dog?” he said.  “Do you intend to stay all night to hear your mother talk?  If so, tell me, that I may seek another comrade—­one who fears neither a white man nor a woman.”

This appeal had its effect, for the young men left the teepee together.  They were soon out of sight, while Harpstenah sat weeping, and swaying her body to and fro, lamenting the hour she was born.  “There is no sorrow in the land of spirits,” she cried; “oh! that I were dead!”

The party left the village that night to procure the whiskey.  They were careful to keep watch for the Chippeways, so easy would it be for their enemies to spring up from behind a tree, or to be concealed among the bushes and long grass that skirted the open prairies.  Day and night they were on their guard; the chirping of the small bird by day, as well as the hooting of an owl by night—­either might be the feigned voice of a tomahawked enemy.  And as they approached St. Anthony’s Falls, they had still another cause for caution.  Here their friends were to meet them with the fire water.  Here, too, they might see the soldiers from Fort Snelling, who would snatch the untasted prize from their lips, and carry them prisoners to the fort—­a disgrace that would cling to them forever.

Concealed under a rock, they found the kegs of liquor, and, while placing them in their canoes, they were joined by the Indians who had been keeping guard over it, and at the same time watching for the soldiers.

In a few hours they were relieved of their fears.  The flag that waved from the tower at Fort Snelling, had been long out of sight.  They kept their canoes side by side, passing away the time in conversation.