As Joe stepped forward to remove the coat he had thrown across the dead face, a low cry, full of the keenest apprehension and fear, sounded behind him.  Turning, his eyes fell upon the Indian girl, who was crouching close at his feet, her palsied hands raised as though to guard off some deadly apparition or danger, while her eyes, full of the most intense fear and horror, were fixed on Nellie Shuter.

Joe’s temper had been sorely tried, and laying his hand heavily on her shoulder, he said fiercely, “What’s the meaning of this?”

Instead of trying to escape from his grasp, she caught him hysterically by the arm, and pointing at Nellie, said wildly, in her queer broken English, “See, see, de Great Spirit send her back to me!  She’s dead.”

As Nellie stood and continued to gaze in amazement at her, the insane terror of the Indian girl rose to an ungovernable height, and burying her face in the grass, she screamed to Joe to send her away.  The deep superstition in her nature—­bred by her people—­had been stronger than the love of revenge or the fear of punishment.  Joe was the first to read the meaning of her superstitious horror, knowing as he did her hatred of Nellie and her love for Harry.  And suddenly pointing at the grovelling figure, he said in a shocked voice:  “Boys, I see it all now; she’s the murderer.  She meant to stab Nellie, her rival, and would have done it if we hadn’t in the darkness last night pitched our tent next to Nellie’s.  The tents are alike, and she mistook ours for hers.”

The mention of Harry’s name brought a gleam of reason to the distracted girl’s face, and springing to her feet—­apparently now forgetful of Nellie’s presence—­she begged Joe to take her from the tent to Harry.  Not for a moment did she appear to realize the dreadful mistake she had made.

“He’s there!” said Joe, pitilessly, pointing to the stretcher.  Thinking in her half-crazed manner that he was sleeping through it all, she ran to the stretcher, and tore away the sheet that covered the face she loved.  It was not till she had caught the dear head to her bosom and pressed her face to his, that the truth broke upon her clouded mind.  They had been drawing near her; but as she let his head fall back, they all—­except Joe—­drew away from her; the heart-broken, insane look on her face was more than they could bear.  As she stood, wildly pressing her hands to her forehead, Joe pointed at the gash in the tent and then at the blood-stained clothing at Harry’s side.  Then with fascinated gaze they watched the rapid changes which sped across her face, for reason had not yet altogether flown, and they saw that she was recalling the fearful mistake she had made.  Suddenly her hands slid to her side, and in doing so encountered the handle of the knife which lay concealed beneath her blanket.  That was the connecting link which brought home to her the whole truth of the tragedy, and with a cry that haunted many of them for years afterwards, she drew the knife, gave one glance at the stained blade that had robbed her of him for whom she would willingly have died, stabbed again and again the fatal gash in the canvas, and then throwing away the knife, caught up the lifeless body in her arms and began madly to chant a wild, weird song which her people sang when they had triumphed over their enemies.