One evening an old Indian, the last of his race, sat at the door of his wigwam watching the fading rays of the chill October sun disappear from the western sky, when two roughlooking men and a dog crossed the farther end of the clearing. The chief, whose head the ashes of time had long since whitened, recognized the newcomers at once to be members of a band of Skinners, supposed some mischief might be brewing, and resolved to follow the miscreants. They led him across a brook and through the woods, until they came to a small hut where a third member of the band was making a fire. The Indian secreted himself in some bushes within hearing and awaited events. One of the men whom he had followed hailed the man by the fire and said :

" Did you get the girl, Paul ? "

"Yes, she is in the hut."

" Did she tell where the old man's money was buried ?"

"No."

"Then she must die. Bring her out."

The man called Paul disappeared within the hut, and soon returned leading a terrified but still beautiful young girl, whom the ruffians tied to a tree and then prepared to shoot.

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"1 will give you one more chance," said the man who appeared to be the leader. "Tell us where the money lies buried."

"1 know of no money," was the faint, gentle answer.