“It is true,” said the boy. “My brother is in danger; it is well that he sees it, for when we know that danger is nigh we can avoid it, and pass away. My brother has seen the arrow?”
“Yes.”
“His head is getting gray; he knows the custom of the Blackfeet. They know that he is a just man, though he has killed some of their people. Good—they give him a chance. They let him go in peace when and where he will, so that he trouble the hills no more with his traps and rifle.”
“Listen,” said Ben, unconsciously adopting the language of an Indian while speaking in that tongue. “I have been a chief of the Crows for a long time; my head has grown gray among them; they taught me not to fear what man can do. Why should we fly from the face of the Blackfoot braves?”
“My father is very brave,” said the boy. “But what can he do against so many? What nation is like the Blackfeet? What chiefs are like theirs? They are many, they are strong. Their horses speed like the wind. Their hearts are very strong. There are three white men; they can fight well, but the braves will sweep them from the earth, when they come in anger.”
“We do not fear,” said Ben. “We have come to take beaver and we must do it.”
“The white men are wrong,” said the boy, stamping fiercely. “They think to drive the Indians from the land their fathers left them. I have heard of great tribes in the east, by the big water, who have been driven out and have perished one by one, until they have no longer a name or a place among the people. But it shall not be so with the Blackfeet.”
“They must do as they will,” said Ben. “We will not go.”
“Be warned. If you do not go, look for the blood-red arrow.”
“We shall expect it. Tell the chiefs that the Strong Buffalo said so old a head as yours has no business on the shoulders of a boy. Go. You will be a chief.”