“The ‘White Vulture’ speaks with a forked tongue; his heart is black toward his brother. The ‘Black Dog’ has no wounds because the Great Spirit smiled on him and the pale-faces could not harm him. Though he has no wounds, yet he gave wounds; the white-wagon braves shrunk before him like the grass before the wind. The ‘Black Dog’ is not a snake; he crawls not on the ground; but his way is like the eagle. The ‘Black Dog’ is not blind like an owl, he would not have run his head against the white wagons to slaughter the braves of the Crow nation. The ‘White Vulture’ is a great chief; the snakes that crawl in the grass and the dogs that lick the hand that feeds them, say he is the ‘great fighting-man of the Crow nation;’ yet the squaws at our lodges, at the great mountains, will mourn for the braves that fell by the hands of the white warriors, by the Yellowstone, when the ‘White Vulture’ led them.”
Astonishment was visible upon the faces of the other chiefs, the “White Vulture” alone excepted, at this speech. The face of the “great fighting-man of the Crow nation” was like marble, no trace of anger appeared upon it at the bitter speech of his foe. The “Crow-Killer” watched the scene eagerly.
“He’ll give the ‘Black Dog’ a lick under the short ribs, the fust thing he knows on. He a fighter, wah!” and the expression of contempt was evidently intended for the Dog chief. “If the ‘White Vulture’ goes for him, I’ll bet my pile on him every time.”
The “White Vulture” arose from his seat to answer the speech of the “Black Dog”; all the chiefs looked on with evident anxiety; that a storm was brewing that might end in blood was evident to all.
“The ‘White Vulture’ has listened with his ears open to the words of the ‘Black Dog’,” began the chief. “The chief has said that the ‘White Vulture’ led the braves of the Crow nation to death: what is death to a warrior? Nothing! Does the ‘Black Dog’ know the reason why the braves of the white wagons beat the red chiefs? If not, the ‘White Vulture’ will tell him. The red braves were to creep upon the white wagons as the panther creeps upon his prey; then they were to spring upon the whites as quick as the forked light comes from the hand of the Great Spirit—the red chiefs were closing in upon the white wagons, but they were not ready for the attack, when the squall of a squaw, the mighty capture of the ‘Black Dog,’ gave warning to the whites that their foes were near. If the ‘Black Dog’ had not captured the white squaw the Crows would have beaten the pale-faces.”
A low murmur went round the circle; all agreed with the “White Vulture,” save, of course, the “Black Dog,” who, with his hand clutched instinctively on his knife, glared upon his foe.
“My brother talks straight!” said the “Thunder-Cloud.”
Then, calm as a statue, the “White Vulture” went on in his speech:
“My brothers gave me the command of the expedition; it was good; they are great chiefs, as brave as the white bear and wise as the beaver.”
All the chiefs bowed assent; the compliment pleased them. Human nature is the same, whether embosomed in the red breast or the white. The “Black Dog” alone looked surly; he saw clearly that the chiefs were all against him, and his heart swelled with rage to see his foe triumph.