“The chief remembered the words of his father, the ‘Rolling Cloud.’ He told his son that if he ever met the ‘Crow-Killer’ and was in danger from him, to say that he was the son of ‘Little-Star.’”
“Did my brother say so?”
“Yes!”
“And the ‘Crow-Killer’?” questioned the old chief.
“He started as if he had been struck by the forked light of the Great Spirit; his arms lost their strength; the ‘White Vulture’ escaped from them and came back to his brothers; the charm was good.”
Then as they rode on, the “White Vulture” told the old chief of the beautiful pale-face girl whose hair was the color of the red metal that the Blackfeet sometimes found in the sands of the mountain streams and molded into bullets—bullets with which they had slain many a brave chief of the Crow nation—how her eyes in color were like the lodge of the Great Spirit above and as soft as the eyes of the deer.
“My brother would take the white singing-bird to his wigwam,” said the old chief; “it is good; she shall rear young braves, that in moons will be great warriors of our tribe, for the ‘White Vulture’ is the great fighting-man of the Crow nation.”
And so onward rode the Crow warriors on the war-trail.