“Your dear Smoke!  I am so sorry for you, Black Bull.”  Timid Hare’s own eyes filled with tears.  “So sorry,” she repeated.

“I will try to save him, though.”  The deformed youth looked wildly about him as he spoke, as though he feared some one besides Timid Hare would hear him.  Then, without waiting for her to reply, he went off in the direction of the spring, beyond which was a sharp bluff.  Below this bluff flowed a stream of water which in the autumn was deep—­so deep that any one could drown in it easily.

“I wonder what Black Bull meant when he said he would try to save Smoke,” thought Timid Hare, as she stood watching.  “He cannot save the dog.  How hard it is!  No one in the village seems to care for Black Bull.  The Stone, his own mother, treats him cruelly.  The dog is his only friend, as he says.  I will tell my young mistress about him.  It may be she can help him.”

As soon as Timid Hare had done her errand she ran home, still with the thought of Black Bull’s trouble in her mind.  She had been in the tepee only a few minutes before Sweet Grass noticed that something was the matter with her little maid.

“What has happened, Timid Hare?” she asked.  “Your face is long—­so!” She drew her own mouth down at the corners and made herself look so funny that Timid Hare, sad as she felt, broke into a laugh.

“It is Black Bull,” she answered.  “He is in trouble.  It is greater than it would be with any one else in the village.”

Then she went on to speak of the youth’s lonely life, and that even his mother treated him badly.  Only one loved him:  this was the dog Smoke who followed him wherever he went and who did not mock him as the children of the village sometimes did.  Smoke was ever ready to smile at him in the one way dogs can—­with his tail.  It was Smoke’s love alone that made Black Bull glad to live.  And now—­Timid Hare’s voice broke as she went on to tell of what must soon happen.

“Poor fellow!” said Sweet Grass softly.  “Poor fellow,” she repeated, half to herself.

As it happened, Young Antelope was in the lodge when Timid Hare was telling the story.  He was busy making a shield; he intended to wear it when first allowed to go forth on a war party with the older braves.  But though he was busy at his work, he listened with interest to the words of Timid Hare.

Soon afterwards he left the tepee and ran along the path leading to the spring.  “If I see Black Bull,” he thought, “I will speak kindly to him even if he is such a useless creature.”

When Young Antelope reached the spring he heard some one talking angrily.  This was followed by a cry of fear.  The sounds came from the direction of the bluff beyond, but the youth could see no one because of clumps of brush which shut off the view from any one at the spring below.

Young Antelope hurried along, till suddenly he caught a glimpse of two figures on the very edge of the rocky summit of the bluff.  One was that of Thunder Cloud, a worthless fellow; the other which he held struggling in his arms was that of The Stoned’s deformed son.  Black Bull was helpless; he was at the mercy of Thunder Cloud who was about to cast him into the stream below.