After the “White Vulture” had finished his story, there was silence in the Indian council. To tell the truth they feared to attack the train. They had sent some thirty of their warriors with the two wagons of furs captured from the trappers to their chief village, which was situated on the head-waters of the Missouri, near the base of the Rocky Mountains.
“My brothers are silent,” said the “White Vulture,” a perceptible sneer curling his lip; “will they attack the white wagons, or will they fly from the ‘Crow-Killer’ like the hawk from the eagle? Will they yield their hunting-grounds to the tread of the white man’s foot, or will they fight and die like warriors for what is their own?”
The braves looked at the bold speaker. No one in the circle could gainsay the caution or the prowess of the “White Vulture.” At length one of the braves spoke:
“The ‘Crow-Killer’ is a devil; the Great Spirit watches over his life.”
Then the “White Vulture” told of his encounter with the “Crow-Killer”; he had not related it before. The chiefs listened attentively. At last, after a long deliberation they determined to attack the train and invested the “White Vulture” with supreme command of the expedition; hitherto he had shared it with two others.
The “White Vulture” gave the order for the band to move, and in a few minutes the warriors were in the saddle. The whole party crossed the Big Horn river and rode slowly off in a north-western direction, that in time would bring them to the Yellowstone river.
The old chief “Thunder-Cloud” rode by the side of the “White Vulture.”
“The ‘White Vulture’ felt the grasp of the ‘Crow-Killer’?” asked the old chief.
“Yes; his arms are like the oak: they twined around the ‘White Vulture’ like the snake around the bird.”
“Yet the ‘White Vulture’ did not lose his scalp to the ‘Crow-Killer’?”