“’Tis a blessed mission,” said the widow; “I wish it may succeed.  D’ye think ye’ll go?”

“Go? ay, that will I.”

“I only wish they’d made the offer to me,” said Dick with a sigh.

“An’ so they do make the offer, lad.  They’ve gin me leave to choose the two men I’m to take with me, and I’ve corned straight to ask you.  Ay or no, for we must up an’ away by break o’ day to-morrow.”

Mrs. Varley started.  “So soon?” she said, with a look of anxiety.

“Ay; the Pawnees are at the Yellow Creek jist at this time, but I’ve heerd they’re ‘bout to break up camp an’ away west; so we’ll need to use haste.”

“May I go, mother?” asked Dick, with a look of anxiety.

There was evidently a conflict in the widow’s breast, but it quickly ceased.

“Yes, my boy,” she said in her own low, quiet voice; “and God go with ye.  I knew the time must come soon, an’ I thank him that your first visit to the Redskins will be on an errand o’ peace.  ’Blessed are the peace-makers:  for they shall be called the children of God.’”

Dick grasped his mother’s hand and pressed it to his cheek in silence.  At the same moment Crusoe, seeing that the deeper feelings of his master were touched, and deeming it his duty to sympathize, rose up and thrust his nose against him.

“Ah, pup,” cried the young man hastily, “you must go too.—­Of course Crusoe goes, Joe Blunt?”

“Hum!  I don’t know that.  There’s no dependin’ on a dog to keep his tongue quiet in times o’ danger.”

“Believe me,” exclaimed Dick, flashing with enthusiasm, “Crusoe’s more trustworthy than I am myself.  If ye can trust the master, ye’re safe to trust the pup.”

“Well, lad, ye may be right.  We’ll take him.”

“Thanks, Joe.  And who else goes with us?”

“I’ve’ bin castin’ that in my mind for some time, an’ I’ve fixed to take Henri.  He’s not the safest man in the valley, but he’s the truest, that’s a fact.  And now, youngster, get yer horse an’ rifle ready, and come to the block-house at daybreak to-morrow.—­Good luck to ye, mistress, till we meet agin.”

Joe Blunt rose, and taking up his rifle—­without which he scarcely ever moved a foot from his own door—­left the cottage with rapid strides.

“My son,” said Mrs. Varley, kissing Dick’s cheek as he resumed his seat, “put this in the little pocket I made for it in your hunting-shirt.”

She handed him a small pocket Bible.

“Dear mother,” he said, as he placed the book carefully within the breast of his coat, “the Redskin that takes that from me must take my scalp first.  But don’t fear for me.  You’ve often said the Lord would protect me.  So he will, mother, for sure it’s an errand o’ peace.”

“Ay that’s it, that’s it,” murmured the widow in a half-soliloquy.

Dick Varley spent that night in converse with his mother, and next morning at daybreak he was at the place of meeting, mounted on his sturdy little horse, with the “silver rifle” on his shoulder and Crusoe by his side.