“I’m afraid that if he ever comes again within range of my rifle I shall convince the Crows that there’s a bullet in my pouch that will settle him,” said Dave, with a grim smile, tapping the butt of his rifle.
“Do you know, Dave, that I don’t want to meet the ‘White Vulture’?” said the “Crow-Killer” solemnly.
“Why not?” asked Dave, in amazement.
“Because I should have to kill him, and that I don’t want to do. Strange, too, that up to to-day we have never met. The last time he attacked a wagon-train between here an’ Fort Benton, I was to go as guide with that same train, but at the last moment, just as we were starting, I had a sort of feeling which said, ‘don’t go!’—a sorter voice that seem to whisper, ‘don’t go,’ right in my ear. I didn’t go, but got another man in my place; I thought I was acting like a fool at the time; wal, that train was attacked an’ the stock all run off; an’ the Crows were led by this same ‘White Vulture.’”
“Well, that was strange,” said Dave.
“It were more than strange,” replied the old guide, in a solemn tone, “I’ve got a notion somehow that it isn’t fated that we shall ever meet in fight, an’ then ag’in, I get the idea that if we ever do meet, it will be the death of one of us.”
“It’ll be the ‘White Vulture’ then that’ll go under. I’ll bet my life on it,” cried Dave.
“I don’t know that, Dave, I don’t know that; he’s a good fighter, quick as a cat an’ savage as a painter. They do tell me that he’s the best runner in his tribe an’ a sure shot with the rifle. If we meet in a fair fight, I think he’s got the advantage of me. The Indian owes me a debt of vengeance for I killed his father.”
“You did?” said Dave.